


Love is a Ballfield

by and_i_take_it



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baseball, Eventual Smut, Fluff, LIAB, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-25 04:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 123,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14371053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_i_take_it/pseuds/and_i_take_it
Summary: Ian and Mickey are teammates on a Triple-A baseball club where they bond over their similar life circumstances. Neither of them want to chance ruining their shot at the major leagues so they attempt to keep their feelings for one another at bay.Until, of course, they can't.





	1. Chapter 1

For Ian, there was no place more reverent than an empty ballfield. Before the men and crowds invaded, there was a stillness that permeated; a calm that centered him and allowed him to worship his baseball Gods in the only church he knew. It cleansed his soul and brought peace to his mind in the way that prayer and absolution did for others.

Whether for practice or a game, Ian would often show up well ahead of his teammates in search of this solitude and regularly found himself returning well after a game to bask in the otherworldly tranquility of a baseball stadium at night.

This is why he found himself at Coca-Cola stadium on a late June afternoon in Buffalo, New York. Today, of all days, he needed this ritual. His nerves were frayed unlike they’d been in years.

It was his first day of practice with the Buffalo Bisons, the Toronto Blue Jays Triple-A affiliate. He’d been drafted from college when his season had ended earlier that month and before he’d had time to really process that his dreams were finally coming to fruition, he was packing up to join his first pro team. The minor league season was already underway by then so he would be merging with a group that had been playing with each other for much of the spring. He was eager to make a good impression.

When he’d arrived early at the stadium that Monday he knew gaining entry to the field through the clubhouse was unlikely, but he had yet to meet a ballpark he couldn't find a way into. He’d met little resistance entering through a service door and had quickly found an entrance that led to the stands. He’d made his way to ground level, threw his duffel bag onto the dirt that bordered the field and hopped over the low wall, taking a moment to savor the smell of fresh cut grass and pine tar before re-shouldering his bag and making his way toward the batter’s box.

He took in the view before him, thankful for the clear skies and bright sun that made him optimistic that today would be a good day. With his red hair shining in stark contrast to the turf around him, he scanned the diamond, imagining what it would be like with all twenty thousand seats filled to capacity. He'd never played in front of a crowd that size and contemplated it with equal parts fear and excitement. Whatever this new chapter of his life would bring, he was determined to meet any challenge head on.

“Who the fuck are you?” a gruff voice echoed from behind him, shattering the silence and startling him out of his reverie.

Ian whipped around to find a dark haired man leaning against the wall behind home plate, watching him with unbridled suspicion. He was clad in dark jeans and a ripped band t-shirt, a plume of smoke unfurling from his nostrils. Ian suspected he was part of the grounds crew. They were usually the only other people he encountered this early.

“Um, I’m Ian? Ian Gallagher?”

“Is that a question? Do you not know your own name?” the man sneered as he eyed Ian up and down.

Ian couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the stranger’s demeanor. He reassessed and decided that the brunet must be with security; no doubt wondering why he had entered the way he had and was now wandering around the infield unaccompanied.

“Oh sorry, I’m… I’m a player. I play for the Bisons,” he attempted with his most disarming smile.

“No you fuckin’ don’t,” the man stated bluntly, cocking an eyebrow.

“Shit. No, I mean, I’m new. It’s my first day,” Ian placated. This was not the welcome he had envisioned. It was always nerve wracking to join a new team, the last thing he needed was to be hassled by this pit-bull.

The dark haired man narrowed his eyes and lifted himself from the wall to walk closer to the plate. Without distance and smoke obscuring his features, Ian was struck by how good looking the security guard was. Blue eyes framed by thick, inky eyelashes; hair disheveled in all the right ways; full, pink lips that bordered straight white teeth. He was shorter than Ian by a few inches, which was exactly his preference. Jesus. If the guy wasn’t obviously a jerk Ian might be salivating. He might be salivating anyway.

Ian felt heat rise in his cheeks as he abruptly realized that he’d been staring, captivated by the stranger’s mouth as his tongue had licked out to trail wetness along his bottom lip. Confident that even a straight guy would have been left gawking, Ian decided to give himself a pass and hoped the security guard hadn’t noticed.

Realizing he was still under scrutiny, he cleared his throat and did his best to meet intense blue eyes and form a sentence, “I, uh, jumped the wall because, um-“

Ian was cut off when a tall black man with salt and pepper hair joined them on the field. “Well, you’re an early bird! Just like Mickey here. I’m Head Coach Meacham. Welcome! We’re thrilled to have you.” The coach extended his hand and shook Ian’s with enthusiasm. His wide smile was instantly endearing and eased the redhead’s anxiety considerably. “Ian’s going to be a great addition to the team,” he directed towards Mickey.

The brunet only snorted but his posture had relaxed perceptibly.

“You two have met then?” When they both muttered non-committals he continued. “Good, good. Mickey, since you’re here, why don’t you show Gallagher around the clubhouse?”

“’Cause I’m not a goddamn tour guide.”

“He’ll be taking Caldwell’s locker,” Meacham continued as if Mickey hadn’t spoken. “Try not to scare him too much, eh?” he finished with a laugh. The head coach patted Ian on the shoulder reassuringly and promptly made his way to the dugout bench to examine his batting lineup.

The guard gave Ian a final once over before deciding to heed the coach’s request.

“Fuck. Fine. Follow me,” Mickey groused and trotted down the dugout steps, banging through the door into the clubhouse. Ian scrambled after him and watched as Mickey took one more draw of his cigarette before crushing it into a garbage can near the entrance. He caught sight of knuckle tattoos that he hadn’t noticed before and grew wide-eyed at their message.

“This door might be a more convenient way to come in next time,” Mickey quipped, eyeing Ian from beneath his lashes.

“Ha, yeah, probably,” Ian stammered and sheepishly scratched at the back of his neck. Had he been staring again?

“Position you play?”

“Uh, pitcher.”

“Second.”

“Second what?”

Mickey shot him a look that could only be interpreted as _are you an idiot_? “Base,” he replied slowly before shaking his head and turning to continue on his trek through the clubhouse.

Ian looked on, puzzled, until it dawned on him that Mickey was telling him that he played second base. Oh good Lord, this guy was his teammate? He would have pegged the brunet for a second baseman within the first minute if he’d known he was a player. Small and angry was a stereotype that he’d found was true of the players at that position more often than not.

“Gear. Physio. Sauna. Gym.” Mickey tore through the clubhouse without halting, gesturing at doors along the way as he sped past, flustered redhead in tow. He stopped suddenly, Ian nearly colliding with him from behind, and waved dismissively to indicate the rest of the hall from that point onward, “offices and shit down there,” and made a hard left into a large common area with worn leather couches, TVs, card tables and a pool table. “Rec room,” he said as he crossed the floor and pushed through a door into a space that was obviously the locker room.

“Showers through there.” Mickey pointed towards a tiled area to the right of the locker room. “And here’s you.” Mickey indicated a locker that still had a plaque with the name ‘CALDWELL’ affixed to it. With that, he was evidently done with both Ian and the whirlwind ‘tour’. He crossed the room, pulled a pack of smokes out of his back pocket and deposited it into a locker before grabbing the hem of his shirt and quickly lifting it up and over his head.

Ian could only stand slack-jawed and infuriatingly frozen as he reeled from the cessation of the fastest tour ever and the sudden appearance of pale skin, his eyes dragging over the second basemen’s toned back. Before the pitcher could compose himself enough to look away, Mickey turned and caught his befuddled eye, a smirk instantly spreading across his stupidly perfect mouth as Ian’s face flushed. Busted. Mickey nodded towards the locker, “Practice gear should be in there, stretch is at 2,” then he chuckled lowly and turned back around.

“Thanks,” was all Ian could muster as his stomach lurched and he pivoted away.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ Ian chastised himself. He was a baseball player for Christ’s sake. He’d been around teammates in various states of undress for half his life and knew what and what not to do in a locker room. Getting caught checking out fellow players was definitely in the top three of what not to fucking do. Especially on your first day. Especially when the guy you were checking out was as scary as he was gorgeous.

Maddeningly, Ian found himself hyperaware of the sounds behind him as Mickey unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and willed himself to get it the fuck together.

Emptying the contents of his duffel into his locker seemed as good a distraction as any. He set to the task with oddly thorough care, keeping his eyes well averted.

The uncomfortable silence was finally broken when Mickey jeered, “I’m decent, Gallagher,” and strutted towards the rec room.

When the door to the adjoining room closed behind the other player, Ian groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward, wondering what would become of his baseball career if he requested a trade within the first fifteen minutes of his first day.

***

Alone and still reeling from his encounter with his new teammate, Ian finished unloading his bag and managed to collect himself enough to change into his dri-fit practice gear; a royal blue tee with ‘Bisons Baseball’ emblazoned on the front and his number 17 on the back, and a pair of light gray mesh training shorts.

Since he’d rather die than join the second baseman in the rec room, he decided to explore his new surroundings.

With cream cinder block walls and dark gray carpet that had seen better days, the locker room was utilitarian but spacious. The faux wood lockers lined opposite sides of the space and each had a red director style canvas chair sitting in front. There was a counter and dark cupboards on the far end of the room and well stocked shelves on the other.

The shower room was communal just like it was in every other clubhouse Ian had been in. Glancing over the rows of showerheads, he had to aggressively push the uninvited image of a naked and wet Mickey from his mind.

Being gay on a ball club was simply not something you advertised. As out and proud as Ian may have been with his family, he knew better than to assume that level of acceptance within the masculine culture of a pro sports team. He had learned self-preservation at a young age and resolved to regard his fellow players as brothers; asexual and untouchable.

So, he went to Hooters with his teammates, laughed at their misogynist jokes, ignored the homophobic ones and lied about dates with women. Everyone did. If he’d ever played with another gay player, he didn’t know about it. Being deeply closeted was par for the course in this profession. As yet, no one had ever come out publicly while actively playing on a pro baseball team and Ian had no desire to be a trailblazer. Like everyone else, he wanted to fit in, keep his head down, compete hard and hopefully break into the majors.

Anonymous off campus hookups and the occasional fuck buddy in the off season were his only indiscretions. Sure, it could be lonely, but no one succeeded at this level without sacrifice. His bewildering attraction to his blue eyed comrade aside, he was very good at towing the straight line. This anomaly would need to be snuffed out – and fast.

By 1:30, the first of his teammates began to trickle into the room. Ian presented himself to each of them and was welcomed with fist bumps and warm smiles. He recognized a few of the men who’d been in and out of the big leagues but for the most part their names and faces were unfamiliar. The locker to the right of him was inhabited by an upbeat Dominican third baseman named Jorge Melendez who patted Ian jovially on the back and informed him that he looked more nervous than a whore in church. The locker to the left of his belonged to a tall, black and heavily muscled outfielder with the last name Liston who invited Ian to call him ‘Bowser’.

As the familiar din of locker room comradery worked to settle Ian’s unease, Mickey ambled in from the rec room. Ian avoided eye contact while surreptitiously stealing glances at the brunet laughing with some of his teammates. If he thought a scowling Mickey was a catalyst for his arousal, a grinning one was trouble on a whole other level.

“Caldwell was in my apartment so you’re taking his room right?” Melendez inquired of the redhead’s accommodations. “It’s me, Peralta and Fowler,” he elaborated, gesturing towards the two other men he shared the apartment with.

“Yes, moving in tonight. I guess that makes us roommates then,” Ian beamed, genuinely happy with the arrangement. “Will I be paired up with one of you on the road as well?” he asked, referring to the fact that two players were always assigned to each hotel room.

“Nah man, Caldwell was with Milkovich,” he responded.

Ian didn’t remember being introduced to anyone with the name Milkovich. Melendez read his confusion and gestured towards Mickey.

The pitcher’s eyes grew wide. “Shit,” Ian breathed before he could catch himself.

“You know him?” Melendez asked.

“Uh, no, not exactly,” Ian spluttered, then took a deep breath before continuing. “He, uh, gave me a tour of the clubhouse earlier. He’s kind of intimidating.” 

“Don’t worry about Mickey. He’s not so bad,” he whispered and catching Ian’s disbelieving look he continued, “Listen, he’s a tough motherfucker but his bark is worse than his bite. He’ll grow on you.”

As menacing as he was sure Mickey could appear, that wasn’t exactly his problem with the brunet. It was pretty much the opposite, in fact. Fortunately, the pitching coach appeared before Ian could stew on it for too long. A heavyset man with his white hair tucked under a navy Bison’s hat, the coach introduced himself as Bob Stanley, shook Ian’s hand cordially and asked him to follow him onto the field. Ian grabbed his cap and glove and sidled up beside him.

“Practice here won’t be much different than what you were used to at UDub,” the coach explained as they walked, using the shorthand moniker for the University of Washington where Ian had been drafted from. “The big shock to your system will be the schedule. We’ve got twenty straight games coming up. We’re hitting the road for Pawtucket tomorrow. Three game stint. Your first start will be Thursday and you’ll be on the mound every five games after that.”

This was nothing Ian hadn’t known. He’d reviewed the team schedule on his way to Buffalo.

“We usually practice evening game days at home. Stretch is usually at two. You’ll shag balls for an hour afterward and then we’ll break off to train.” He eyed Ian appraisingly. “I’m looking forward to getting a look at this famous heater of yours. You’re the first twenty-two year old I’ve ever had at this level. It must be somethin’ else,” he chuckled then paused for a beat, suddenly serious. “We’re expecting a lot from you.”

Ian was aware that the average age for a player in this league was twenty-seven. Coming straight out of college was a rarity but he’d earned the win in all but one game he’d pitched in his last season at UDub. With his ERA and strikeout percentage the best in the league, he’d rocketed to the top of the list for many teams in the June draft. The Blue Jays picked him up in the first round.

“I’m ready to work hard, sir,” Ian said sincerely. “I won’t let you down.”

“Good. Make sure you don’t.”

The rest of the team was slowly trickling onto the field. At 2 o’clock sharp, the pitching coach led Ian and the rest of the pitchers in their stretch. Afterward, they roamed in the outfield, chatting and waiting for batting practice to begin.

At the first crack of a bat, Ian finally felt himself slide back into ‘the zone’. He tracked the balls as they soared and managed not to fumble anything that came his way. He was no outfielder but he could shag with the best of them and cleanly catching a line drive that came hurtling his way had his fellow pitchers whooping at him. Pleased with himself, he cocked his arm to throw the ball back towards the infield when he realized that Mickey had been the source of the hit. The second baseman was already in position for his next swing but Ian swore he’d seen him roll his eyes. He couldn’t fathom why he found it so oddly charming.

When the pitchers broke off with their trainer, Ian spent some time reviewing all the pitch signals with the starting catcher, a Canadian named Butler. Luckily he had the next few days to get them down pat. Soon after, the redhead was warming up and the pitching coach was joined by Coach Meacham. A hush came over the rest of the bullpen as the other players focused their attention on Ian, checking out the fresh meat.

“Show us what you got, kid,” said Coach Meacham.

Ian dipped his head and filled his lungs while he got into his stance. Still thrumming along in ‘the zone’, he could have pitched fastballs in his sleep. This triggered his nerves much less than certain raven haired infielders did. Without hesitation, he fired off a blistering shot straight into the catcher’s waiting glove. The players around him let out whistles and curses. Butler threw the ball back to him and Ian repeated the same pitch. Hard. Accurate. Over and over again until Coach Stanley held up a hand. 

“We clocked the last two at 101 and 101.3. You’re making these guys look bad,” he snickered, motioning towards Ian’s audience. “Come on boys,” he clapped, “back to work, you’ve clearly got some competition.”

The pitchers returned to their activities with exaggerated sighs. 

***

The rest of the afternoon went by quickly and before long everyone was meandering back into the clubhouse. A copy of the road trip itinerary had made its way into Ian’s locker. Melendez returned as he was reviewing it and suggested they grab a bite to eat together. Ian agreed enthusiastically and then caught sight of Mickey over the Dominican’s shoulder. The second baseman was idly shooting the shit with his locker neighbor clad in nothing but a pair of snug fitting black boxer briefs; completely unaware that he had triggered Ian’s heart to jackhammer painfully in his throat.

Melendez glanced behind him to see what had so rapidly changed the redhead’s demeanor.

“Gallagher, don’t worry about Mickey. He’s not that bad,” he promised, interpreting Ian’s deer-in-the-headlight look as fear. “Do you want me to invite him out with us? Break the ice?”

“Fuck no!” Ian whispered fiercely enough that Melendez was visibly taken aback. “Uh, I just mean, no, thanks, I’d rather focus on decompressing tonight and getting moved in.” He attempted with a weak smile.

“Yeah, sure thing,” Melendez placated. “I’m gonna shower and we can go whenever you’re ready.”

Ian paled at the word shower and considered sniffing his armpits to determine if that was something he really needed to subject himself to. Running for fly balls had left a slick of sweat on him. He weighed his options. Mickey appeared to be content chatting with his teammates at the moment. Perhaps if he could strip fast enough he would be in and out before those boxer briefs ever hit the floor. Contending with Mickey’s flawless abs and chest had been more than enough torture for one day.

He went for it. In record time his socks, shirt, shorts and underwear were stashed in a crumpled mess at the bottom of his locker. He spared a quick glance at Mickey only to find that, to his horror, the man was looking right back at him. Ian knew he had a nice body and was used to being naked in change rooms so when he was hit with the unfamiliar urge to cover his junk his brain decided that fleeing for the relative safety of the showers was best. However, the bustle of a full locker room does not lend itself well to sure-footedness in the face of panic. Dodging human walls, canvas chairs and duffels thrown haphazardly on the floor, Ian managed approximately two feet of momentum before his foot was snagged and he was flying through the air.

He landed bare ass up in a tangled heap of limbs and chairs. A moment of silence followed then promptly gave way to the inevitable chorus of raucous laughter. Ian stared at the broken and jagged end of a chair leg and yearned for retroactive impalement.

“Fuck Red, you okay?” a voice asked beside him, brimming with barely suppressed amusement.

The redhead merely grumbled before several sets of hands on either side of him were gripping his arms and pulling him roughly upright. He realized now that Mickey was there, so close that their nude sides were pressed tightly together and the brunet had an arm wrapped around his waist as he lifted Ian’s left arm over his shoulder. His face was inches away, his eyes searching the clumsy redheads for signs of pain.

Ian stood inert, lost in blue eyes and the electric sensation of skin on skin. His humiliation forgotten, his tongue tied and his heart once again thudding, he vaguely acknowledged that his body’s response to Mickey was something he had exactly no control over.

Then a steadying hand was on his chest and Mickey was lowering him into a chair and crouching down to ask once again if he was okay. This time his voice sounded more concerned than amused which spurred Ian to finally respond.

“I’m fine, thanks. Only bruised my ego,” he assured the brunet meekly. 

“Well, that was funny as hell,” Mickey grinned as he squeezed his shoulder and rose, acquired a towel from out of thin air and threw it onto Ian’s lap.

Ian could only wonder what kind of bullshit fate was trying to pull when Mickey then turned his back to him, walked a few feet away, dropped his briefs and tossed them in the direction of his locker. The pitcher had the best seat in the house to observe the most perfect ass he’d ever seen strut its way to the showers.

He was too grateful for the towel in his lap to ponder why it had been thrown there in the first place.

***

“I’m so pissed I missed it,” Melendez moaned around a bite of his burger. “You know you’ll never live that down, right?”

“Yes, well aware,” Ian confirmed. He’d already been teased mercilessly before he’d left the clubhouse and was quite familiar with the torture teammates could unleash on one another.

“Are you usually clumsy?”

“Not usually,” he mumbled.

“Bad luck then.”

Ian was barely listening. The spectacle he’d made of himself only mattered because Mickey had been there to see it. He couldn’t get the brunet out of his head. He methodically chewed his food and concentrated on giving nothing away with his expression. Knowing how his body had betrayed him over and over again all day, he didn’t trust it to not betray him now.

“What do you know about Mickey?” he blurted.

“He's a decent guy. Kind of a lone wolf.” Melendez thought for a second. “He’s definitely the type of guy you want on your team though. Plays hard and would have any of our backs. He’s not exactly friendly but not really an asshole either.” He shrugged. “He’s funny. Although I’m not always sure he’s trying to be. Which is kind of hard to explain unless you know him. I don’t know, man, what do you want to know?”

Certainly none of that unhelpful information. “Does he have a girlfriend?” Ian asked. He attempted a casually curious exterior while he internally winced at his ongoing inability to play it cool. Stuffing food into his mouth seemed to help.

“Uh, not that I’ve seen. He’d probably be less grumpy if he did though,” he joked. “Why?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at the redhead.

“Just wondering what to expect,” he answered meekly; resolving not to bring the man up again today. Whatever this effect was that Mickey had on him was nothing that couldn't be chalked up to nerves. He'd no doubt have a handle on it tomorrow.

“You’re worrying too much.”

“Probably," he agreed just to move the conversation away from their teammate.

The new friends finished up their meal and clambered back into Melendez’s Hyundai to head for the apartment. It was a large flat on the bottom level of a four story brick building; one of several identical structures on the busy street. Only about ten minutes from the ballpark, the Bison’s organization had negotiated a deal with the owner for reduced rent, ensuring that most of the two and four bedroom units were filled with ball players.

Although his new position on the team garnered Ian with a more than adequate wage for the first time in his life, he knew that given the nature of the game, stashing away any money he could was the prudent course of action. He was still a Gallagher after all. He may have earned a Liberal Arts degree at college but he honestly hoped he would never have to use it.

The men were greeted by their roommates when they arrived. Peralta was a relief pitcher in his late twenties with chocolate eyes and a head full of wavy brown hair. He was pleasant and welcoming; offering Ian a beer right away. Chad Fowler, on the other hand, was the team’s irritable back-up catcher. Blond and thick he had an overgrown surfer dude vibe, but without the laid back attitude to match. Ian resolved to stay on his good side.

Taking a look around, Ian noted that the apartment was fairly large and tidy. The building was old but the interior had been updated recently. The hardwood floors were rustic but refinished and the kitchen was modernized with maple shaker cabinets and black appliances. On either side of the kitchen there was a hall, each leading to two bedrooms and a bathroom. The furniture was more stylish and in much better condition than anything the Gallaghers had at their home in Chicago and Ian was thrilled to find he had a queen size bed and plenty of dresser space.

After practice, Melendez had taken Ian to his hotel to gather what little belongings he’d brought with him to Buffalo. The rest of the night was spent storing everything neatly away and phoning his sister Fiona to entertain his inquisitive family with the events of the day - minus a few details he'd rather not discuss. He turned in early knowing that the team was leaving in the morning for a long bus ride to Pawtucket and doubting that he’d get much sleep for the next few nights given that he’d soon be sharing a room with Mickey. He snickered to himself at the unintended double entendre of that thought, which led him fully down the rabbit hole. Unsurprisingly, his mind was on Mickey as he drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **BASEBALL TERMS IN THIS CHAPTER:**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Shag** \- Catching fly balls in the outfield outside the context of an actual baseball game. This is most commonly done by pitchers during batting practice before a game, where they assist their hitting teammates by catching or picking up their batted baseballs and throwing them back.


	2. Chapter 2

Ian woke the next morning fully committed to putting the humiliating events of the previous day behind him. He'd been understandably on edge to begin with and Mickey had caught him off guard. No wonder he'd been flustered. The more he mulled it over, the more convinced he became that there was nothing special about the second baseman. Sure, he had that bad boy thing going on, but it wasn't anything Ian couldn't find in less risky places. And yeah, maybe he had a spectacular ass, but he was most likely straight anyway. Even if, by some miracle, he wasn't straight, there was not a chance in hell that that guy bent over for anybody. _Damn, if he did though, just imagine how good he’d be at taking it._

“For fuck’s sake,” he swore when he realized his hand had found its way to his dick. 

He forced his hand to his side and reeled in his rambling thoughts. They'd only lead him back down the path to embarrassment. Bottom line, he was going to behave like a human that didn’t need to be institutionalized today and that was that. Less than comforted by the fact that it probably couldn’t get any worse, he decided to play it safe and began his day with a long jog followed by a freezing cold shower.

Afterward, his roommates shared breakfast with him since he hadn’t had a chance to buy any of his own food yet and Fowler tore around complaining that they were all slobs. It was the beginning of a new normal. The more routine this all became, the better off he was sure he’d be.

When they arrived at the clubhouse, two team buses were idling out front. With no game or practice scheduled, the day would be devoted entirely to travel. Pawtucket was a nearly seven hour road trip from Buffalo and their itinerary had them arriving after supper. Ian left his small suitcase with staff to load onto the buses while he went to join the rest of the men who were packing up their gear inside. He hadn’t seen Mickey yet and was proud that, beyond a cursory glance around the locker room to determine he wasn’t in sight, he wasn’t obsessing over his whereabouts.

“Oh fuck, no,” he muttered upon seeing an adult-sized Goofy costume hanging in his locker. He whirled around to look at his teammates, the majority of whom were watching him with shit-eating grins plastered on their faces. He sighed heavily and awaited his sentence.

“Come now, Slick, you didn’t think we forgot you were a rookie, did ya?” Bowser snaked a heavy arm around his shoulders. “Lucky for you, we found this puppy,” he paused to give everyone a moment to roll their eyes at his pun, “on short notice. Seems fitting, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s fucking perfect,” Ian deadpanned. “How long do I have to wear it?”

“Just for the road trip.”

Four days.

Ian was no stranger to rookie initiations but he hadn’t been on the receiving end of one in years. His first season with the Huskies, he’d been forced to walk backwards for an entire week. A costume seemed pretty tame in comparison.

“Assholes.” He shook his head and huffed out a laugh. He was nothing if not a good sport. This was a rite of passage after all. These customs ultimately brought the team closer together. 

“You can only take it off for training, playing, showering or sleeping,” Bowser continued.

“What about screwing?” Peralta piped up from across the room.

“You really think he’s gonna pick up wearing that thing?” Bowser screwed up his face and then thumped Ian’s back good-naturedly. “That’d be really fucking impressive though. I’ll allow it. You can take it off if you find a bitch in heat.” Ian did his best not to scowl at the crude joke. “Milkovich, you’re in charge of keeping him in line when he’s out of our sight,” he said to Ian’s road roommate.

Ian hadn’t noticed the second baseman enter the locker room and he whipped his head around at the mention of his name. He was at his locker, looking more fuckable than anyone had a right to in road sweats. He caught Ian’s eye for a split second before proceeding to ignore him and his teammates in favor of packing. As Ian flushed like a school girl his delusions that he could remain calm and collected in the brunet’s presence abruptly crumbled to dust. 

He sighed and looked at the Goofy costume. With its snout curled up at the sides and its golf ball like eyes dopily staring back at him, its expression mocked him. “Good luck redeeming yourself wearing a visual reminder of your idiocy,” it seemed to say, although less eloquently and with more chortling. 

Wanting to get it over with, Ian stripped to his boxer briefs and climbed into the awkward velour one-piece. If he had to wear the stupid thing in the middle of June he would at least attempt to be comfortable. The snout of the costume opened around Ian’s face and stuck out nearly six inches in front of him. It had large white cartoon gloves that he put aside for when he’d finished packing.

His teammates jeered at him as he spread his arms wide and did a spin to let them have their fun.

“Hey, do you realize we got a Mickey and a Goofy?” Melendez cackled at his own witticism to a chorus of groans.

 

***

The bus proved to be much nicer than any Ian had traveled in previously and since there were two of them, each man had a seat to themselves. There were certainly perks to being within spitting distance of the major leagues.

Ian really didn’t mind road trips. Growing up, his family had barely traveled out of their own shitty neighborhood, let alone across state lines. They hadn’t even owned a car. Baseball had given him the opportunity to see and do so much more than he would have ever been able to otherwise. It hadn’t always been easy to find the money to keep him playing but they’d always found a way. He’d been lucky enough to have had coaches that believed in him and helped where they could as well. When he’d gotten an athletic scholarship to the University of Washington, it was like winning the lottery. Being drafted by the Blue Jays had been like winning the fucking Mega Millions jackpot. He still couldn’t believe this was his reality.

He’d had mixed feelings when he’d settled in his seat and saw Mickey climb aboard the same bus. It’d been a 50/50 chance and he wasn’t sure which hell was worse; having the second baseman in close proximity for 7 hours or knowing that he could have been. Mickey was in the back though and keeping to himself so it seemed like a good compromise.

Ian passed the time chatting with Melendez, dozing and passively watching the overhead televisions. The team was collectively bingeing Mad Men and he had no clue what was going on. At noon, coolers were opened and Subway sandwiches and soft drinks were passed around. Ian could definitely get used to this life.

When he took off his unwieldy white gloves to eat, Bowser appeared beside him shaking his head. “No way Gallagher, those are part of the costume, put ‘em back on.”

”How am I supposed to eat?” Ian spun around searching faces for a possible ally. Seeing none he settled on glowering at the outfielder.

”Not my problem kid. I don’t make the rules.”

“You kind of fucking did though.” Ian twisted his face.

Bowser raised his head to yell to the back at Mickey. “You see this Mickey, you’re gonna need to keep a close eye on this one!”

Mickey absently flipped him off while he continued to stare out the window. Bowser wasn’t pressed, he just laughed like the second baseman was hilarious.

Much to the delight of the other occupants on the bus, the Goofy hands proved incapable of holding a can or bottle. Melendez took pity on Ian and held a soda up for him to drink but more of the amber liquid dripped onto his front than down his throat. After that debacle, he decided to forgo an attempt at eating a meatball sub and sat stewing in his own hunger instead. 

He devised a plan to eat a protein bar in the bathroom and spent the next half hour trying to sneak it between the cuff of his glove and his wrist. Finally successful, he made his way to the back of the bus with Bowser’s focus on him the entire way. Mickey’s seat was closest to the tiny stall but fortune seemed to be on Ian’s side for once when he saw that the second baseman was leaning against the window with his eyes closed and earbuds in. 

The bathroom was vacant but the door had been pulled shut by the previous occupant. Ian pawed at it uselessly. The mechanism to open it was tiny and recessed and he couldn’t get it to move no matter which stubby digit he tried to wedge in. Of course his teammates took notice and began to taunt him; rookie initiation fucking sucked. With mounting frustration he took to beating at the door with his cushioned fists and was about to take the walk of shame back to his seat when his protein bar slid out of his glove and landed on the floor. Like a mirage, Mickey was suddenly beside him. He hooked a finger in the latch, retracted the door, kicked the protein bar into the bathroom and sat back down before Ian could do much more than register his presence. When the players groaned their displeasure at the second baseman he told them to “Grow the fuck up,” and their complaints were dropped.

“Thanks,” Ian mumbled, not nearly loud enough for Mickey to hear him. He sat on the toilet and ate his protein bar in contemplation, unsure of how to feel about the entire thing. He was mostly just incredibly grateful that he would have something in his stomach to get him through the remaining four hours of the trip. He tried to nod his appreciation at Mickey on his return to his seat but the brunet had already gone back to listening to music.

When they finally pulled up to the Hampton Inn that would be their home for the next three nights, Ian was hit by a wave of nausea. He’d be alone with Mickey shortly. The brunet was the first off the bus, passing by Ian’s seat without so much as a glance in his direction. He envied the man’s cool disposition.

Ian unloaded into the lobby, his teammates ribbing him for every single thing he tried to do that he couldn’t. Mickey was waiting for him near the entrance.

“I checked in. Got you a key.” He held the card out for Ian but, glancing at the ridiculous gloves, pocketed it instead. 

They rode the elevator in silence. When they arrived on their floor, Ian was too uncomfortable not to attempt to break the ice, “Um, thanks for your help on the bus,” he said as they walked.

“No problem.” 

He waited a few beats. Mickey was giving him zero to work with. “So, um, any roommate rules I should know about?” Ian asked.

“Don’t be a dick, don’t be annoying,” he said simply, “and don’t touch my shit.”

“That’s it?”

“What else is there?”

“I don’t know,” Ian searched his mind for something that could keep the discussion going. “What about the T.V.? Who decides what’s on?”

“Fill your boots. I’ve got a tablet.” 

Of course he did. Who didn’t? Ian couldn’t even remember the last time he’d turned on an actual television. Why was he so bad at this? “What about girls? Do you bring them back to your room or anything?” he asked tentatively. He’d roomed with his share of horny teammates and knew the drill. You get a text and you make yourself scarce for an hour. Ian held his breath as he awaited an answer.

“Nah.” 

Ian could feel tension leave his body that he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Me either,” he stated firmly. 

Mickey side-eyed him. “Plenty of other places to bang, right?”

Aaaand the tension was back.“Right,” Ian muttered.

When they arrived at their room, the second baseman unlocked the door and held it open for Ian to shuffle through. With a small sitting area and two queen beds all decorated in deep reds, white and grey, it was nice. Nicer than the hotels he’d had on the road in college. Mickey threw his bag on top of the bed closest to the bathroom and looked back at Ian, “You gotta be hungry.”

“I’m fucking starving,” Ian lamented, staring down at his comically oversized hands. He was pleasantly surprised that Mickey thought to ask.

“You don’t gotta wear that shit in here. I won’t tell those douchebags,” Mickey offered.

“Yeah?” Ian eyed him warily.

“You gotta eat. Besides, it must be hot as balls in that thing. The other rookies got hazed in fuckin’ early April.” When Ian still didn’t look convinced he added, “It’ll save me from having to look at it.”

“Uggghh, thank fucking God,” Ian relented with a loud moan drawing what appeared to be a genuine smile from the brunet. Ian beamed back at him until Mickey fidgeted under his intense gaze. Ian quickly reined it in. 

“Well, thanks. I owe you one,” he said, then paused. “Well, two now, I guess.” Mickey waved him off. “Um, I’m gonna hop in the shower. I’ve been sweating in this thing all day and Melendez poured half a can of soda down the front.”

Mickey nodded briskly, “You want me to order some room service? I could eat too.”

“Fuck yeah, that’d be awesome.” Ian tried to control his grin but failed miserably. “Get whatever, I’m so hungry I could eat an ass right now.” Ian’s eyes grew wide as the words fell from his lips. Did he _seriously_ just fucking say that? He’d been doing so comparatively good.

“Is that right?” Mickey bit his lip and all but leered as Ian squirmed in embarrassment, “I’ll see if that’s on the menu.”

Ian huffed an uncomfortable laugh as he quickly grabbed toiletries and a change of clothes and escaped to the refuge of the bathroom. He closed his eyes under the spray of the shower, wishing it was as easy to wash away his bewildering attraction to Mickey as it was to wash away the grime of the day.

 _Eat ass? Really?_ He knew which ass he wished was on the menu.

Predictably, his traitorous dick began to fill as soon as his new roommate entered his mind. There was no way in hell he was rubbing one out thinking about him… but God how he wanted to.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until he heard the toilet flush. He stuck his head out from around the shower curtain and saw Mickey at the sink. Ian’s heart flipped. 

“Mickey? What the fuck?!”

“Had to piss.” He shrugged, as if that were all the explanation necessary.

”I’m in the shower!”

”So?”

”So, I’m naked!”

“I’ve seen you naked, Gallagher. Up close and fuckin’ personal. Me and half the team could identify your asshole in a lineup.”

”Jesus, Mickey,” Ian pinched the bridge of his nose at the unwelcome memory. “Just get the fuck out. Please.”

“So, I’m supposed to wait when I’ve gotta take a leak? Fuck that.”

”Caldwell used to let you in when he was showering?” he asked, exasperated. Honestly, if it was anybody but Mickey he wouldn’t care but sporting a half-chub over the guy when he was five feet away had felt like being caught red handed.

Mickey appeared to think for a moment. ”Don’t know, never tried the door.”

_What the fuck?_

”Relax, I’m leaving. You can get back to your wrist aerobics.” Mickey snickered his way out of the bathroom.

Ian’s body buzzed with the adrenaline Mickey’s unexpected appearance had unleashed. He took his time washing up and getting dressed, he wasn’t in a hurry to be subjected to more Mickey-induced stress. As he readied himself, he decided that it was now or never; he was going to go out there and make a valiant effort to get to know his roommate. Apart from asking him point blank if he took it up the ass or not, humanizing the guy was the only surefire way he could come up with to stop having these reactions around him.

“Ordered some chicken parm. I’ve had it here before and it’s decent,” Mickey said when Ian returned to the main room; pointing down at the food that had arrived in record time.

“Sounds great, thanks,” Ian replied. The food smelt delicious and Mickey had sprung for some beer as well. They both grabbed a covered plate and a bottle and sat on their respective beds to eat. He observed Mickey curiously and gave himself an internal pep-talk before he spoke. “So, how long have you been with the team?” he probed. 

Mickey made eye contact with him and Ian managed to keep his breathing even. “Since last season. Got drafted out of High School by the Jays and been working my way up in the minors ever since.”

 _That wasn’t so bad!_ Ian cheered himself on and went for another question. “You ever been called up?”

“Not yet,” Mickey paused to take a generous fork full of pasta before continuing between chews, “but I’m goin’ if Travis’ knee gives out again,” he said, referring to the Jay’s injury prone second baseman.

“Wasn’t he out for, like, half the season last year?”

Mickey nodded, “Just a matter of time.” He took a long swig of beer that showed off his neck so nicely it had Ian gulping in sync with him. “What’s your story?”

“Uh, grew up in Chicago. Drafted out of UDub.”

“Oh yeah? College boy from Chicago, huh?” Mickey gave him an appraising look and Ian buried his focus in his plate. “Well, we’ve got one thing in common then.” When Ian raised his eyebrows at him he continued, “I’m South Side.”

“No shit! I’m from Canaryville, you?”

“Armour Square. I lived in Canaryville when I was a kid.”

“Wow!” Perhaps that was the unexplainable thing that was drawing him to the second baseman. The thing besides his fuckability, that was. “We’ve probably played against each other tons of times!” Ian gauged Mickey to be about his age, a couple of years older at most.

“Maybe, but I think I’d remember that.” Mickey squinted at him, as if he were trying to do just that.

“Yeah, me too.” Ian peered back.

“No way I’d have pegged you for South Side,” the brunet snorted.

“I definitely would have pegged you for South Side,” Ian countered with a chuckle and they were smiling at each other. Ian swallowed down the giddiness it triggered with a mouthful of beer.

“You finish your degree at UDub?” Mickey asked. When Ian nodded he continued. “Good for you, man. I was done with school. When scouts started sniffing around I told all the college guys to go fuck themselves.”

“I thought about it, honestly, but I dunno, I wasn’t sure if I was good enough. Wanted to have a backup plan if baseball didn’t work out,” Ian confided.

“Don’t think you’ve got much to worry about. You must be good. Not too many guys fresh out of college in this league.”

“What are you, twenty-three?” Ian huffed.

“Twenty-four.”

“So, twenty-three when you joined the team in an infield spot? I’d say you must be good too.”

“I am.”

“And humble.” Ian smiled.

“That shit’s overrated. I’m not,” he said frankly, flashing his teeth. Somehow it didn’t sound cocky, just confident, and Ian didn’t doubt him for a second.

Mickey’s phone chimed alerting him to a text. “I’ve gotta meet somebody soon,” he divulged when he read it. Ian continued to chew his food and nodded, trying not to look disappointed. “I better hit the shower,” he said as he stuffed another fork full of chicken parm in his mouth, washed it down with the rest of his beer, and got to his feet.

Ian sat on his bed and ate, doing his best not to sulk while he listened to the shower run. He’d have plenty of other chances to get to know his new roommate so why did he care so much that he was going out tonight? An hour ago he had been terrorized by the idea of being alone with the man and now he didn’t want him to leave. Maybe it was because he’d actually been succeeding at having a non-mortifying conversation with the guy. Or, he acknowledged, maybe it was the vague _somebody_ he was meeting.

Mickey reappeared with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Ian had seen him bare-chested in the locker room the day before, but it felt considerably more intimate when it was just the two of them. All of the heat in his body rushed simultaneously to his neck and groin as his eyes feasted on towel dried hair and damp skin. Mustering every ounce of willpower he had, he looked away and braced himself for the inevitable drop of that cloth.

Seemingly oblivious to Ian’s suffering, the brunet was in no hurry to get dressed. He puttered about, moving things from here to there, all the while Ian’s eyes danced uneasily around the room, unsure where to land. Relief seemed imminent when Mickey finally gathered clothes from his bag and chucked them on his bed... until he simply sat beside them and typed away on his phone for an eternity instead of getting dressed.

Ian couldn’t take it anymore and popped off his bed to rummage through his bag for something to distract himself with. Finding his tablet, he sank onto the sofa to immerse himself in anything besides the man he wanted to immerse himself into.

When he next looked up, Mickey was pulling a black v-neck over his head and emerged from the cotton looking so effortlessly sexy that Ian had to bite his lip to hold back a curse. The fucker didn’t even look in a mirror before he put on his shoes, gathered his phone and wallet and made to leave.

“Later. Don’t wait up.” He smirked over his shoulder and the door closed behind him.

Ian mashed his face into a cushion to stifle an agonized moan. He needed a plan. The best and most likely scenario was that Mickey was straight and nothing would ever come of this even if Ian couldn’t figure out how to get himself together. The redhead chose to ignore how that thought made his gut clench. For his sanity’s sake, he needed to figure Mickey Milkovich out sooner rather than later. He wanted off this roller coaster of emotions.

When he lifted his head out of the pillow he spied Mickey’s bag sitting where he’d left it on his bed. Ian’s conscience immediately started a fierce battle with his desperation. He got to his feet and eyed it from a safe distance. God, it could be so easy. All he needed was some sort of confirmation that Mickey wasn’t into dudes, some straight porn, a girlfriend’s picture perhaps, and he could be released from this torture. He battled with himself, inching a few steps toward it and then taking a few back. _I’m not a fucking snoop_ , he told himself. Maybe he could get a little closer though.

With coy interest he approached slowly as if the inanimate object could sense his intentions. His breath caught when he saw that the brunet hadn’t completely closed it before he’d left. He crouched low so he could hover over the five inch opening at the top of the bag. He wasn’t going to touch the zipper, he decided. It was too risky. Besides, if he didn’t actually touch the bag he wasn’t breaking any rules or crossing any lines. Okay, admittedly he was tiptoeing across the line but at least he wasn’t pole vaulting over the fucking thing.

He couldn’t see much. The bag was black. The interior was black. Half of Mickey’s goddamn clothes seemed to be black. It was nearly impossible to make anything out. He was looking around for some sort of light source when his eyes landed on his tablet. He quickly grabbed it off the couch and switched on the flashlight app. It was awkward to align it over the zipper’s gap and still be able to see around it. He twisted this way and that, attempting to find the best angle, and settled on top of Mickey’s bed with one eye peering into the depths of the bag while he held the tablet just above. 

His head jerked up when he heard the door to the room click open. He dropped the tablet and scrambled off the bed, flailed haphazardly for a moment, dove back to grab the device, then bolted for the bathroom door he knew was to his left. He promptly slammed head first into the wall beside the doorway with a sickening thud. The impact forced an undignified grunt from his throat as he slid into a groaning ginger heap on the floor. _I deserved that_ , he reasoned on his way down.

“Christ!” Mickey exclaimed from behind him.

His survival instinct intact, Ian swiped the incriminating evidence of his tablet with its still lit flash under the bed before he began to drag himself back to his feet. “I’m okay,” he lied when he stood upright on shaky legs, the whine in his voice telling the real story. His face hurt so unbelievably much. Nowhere near as much as his pride, but that was pretty well an unattainable level at this point.

“Yeah, you sure about that?” Mickey stared at him in disbelief and gestured in his direction. “‘Cause you look like you’re about to fall over and you’re bleeding all over the fuckin’ place!”

“No, I’m… shit!” Ian exclaimed when he glanced down. Dark red drips were splattering on his t-shirt and onto the carpet around his feet. He clutched his nose to staunch the flow and darted towards the bathroom in search of a facecloth. His hip caught on the door jam on his way through and he cursed, squeezing his eyes shut from the pain. He hobbled into the room with Mickey at his heels.

“Gallagher, sit the fuck down before you kill yourself,” he demanded as he whacked the toilet seat shut and guided Ian down onto it by the shoulders. He grabbed a cloth and pressed it into the redhead’s hand while he ran the tap to dampen another. Ian barely refrained from telling Mickey he shouldn’t bother helping; for the second time in as many days, he would have been perfectly okay with skewering himself on whatever blunt object was most readily available. He pinched his nose with the cloth and stared miserably at his feet until Mickey hooked a finger under his chin and told him to, “Keep your head back.” He switched to staring miserably at the ceiling instead as Mickey leaned back against the vanity and watched him in silence.

“You don’t have to stay,” Ian croaked after a minute. In fact, he’d have a much better time wallowing in his self-pity without an audience.

“I’ll leave when you stop bleedin’,” Mickey bargained.

“Why’d you come back?” Ian asked, his voice pathetically nasal. 

“Forgot my ID. Didn’t expect you to think you were bein’ attacked. I woulda fuckin’ knocked.”

Ian choked on the unexpected laugh that gurgled out of him. He coughed and hacked around it, his eyes watering by the time he got himself under control. Mickey eyed him warily. 

“At least I wasn’t naked this time,” he joked as he rubbed at his tears.

“Maybe that’s why this time seemed less funny.” 

“That or the blood.”

“Actually, you’re right, it was definitely the blood ‘cause the fuckin’ noise you made when you hit the wall was like somethin’ out of a cartoon.” Mickey chuckled, shaking his head at the recollection. 

Ian snorted and winced when it hurt like a bitch. He pulled the cloth from his face and examined it. “I think it stopped.”

Mickey passed him the wet one to clean himself up with. “You know, you need to stop doin’ this shit or you’re gonna be on the DL before you get your first start.”

“Would if I could,” Ian assured him. Obviously.

“You’re pretty uncoordinated for a baseball player,” Mickey observed. “More like a newborn deer.”

Ian rolled his eyes up at him but said nothing. He stood from the toilet and carefully stretched the neck of his bloodied shirt out so he could lift it over his head. He tossed the tee in the sink and went about inspecting his chest for red smudges. His banter with Mickey had made him briefly forget his nervousness so when it abruptly occurred to him that he’d just taken his shirt off within a foot of the man he looked up. Mickey swiftly averted his eyes and Ian’s throat constricted at the implications.

“I should get going,” Mickey stated, moving away.

“Yeah,” Ian stammered. “Thanks for your help.” He followed the brunet into the main room and watched him dig through the demon bag, surreptitiously willing his ID to stay hidden. But, Mickey found it moments later and was out the door with a quick wave shortly after.

As soon as he’d left, Ian replayed Mickey’s reaction in the bathroom when he had taken his shirt off. Surely Ian’s hopeful mind had manufactured the flicker of… something… that he thought he’d seen. Ian was admittedly terrible at gauging subtle clues like these. When he met guys at clubs it was always blatantly obvious what they wanted from him. The rare time he’d had a vague interest in a teammate, which was bound to happen on occasion given that he was around attractive men so often, he’d never even risked flirting. It would have been a good way to be ostracized if not beaten to a bloody pulp. As he’d gone up in the ranks, the homophobia in the clubhouse had only increased. Many of the countries that his teammates originated from were not as liberal as the United States and so homophobic culture and slurs were what they knew. Sometimes it felt like baseball would be the last sport to ever be accepting of his sexuality. 

He resolved to distract himself from his roommate by being productive. Tomorrow’s game, and especially his first start the following day, needed to be his focus right now. Perhaps returning to the field would be the remedy he so badly needed. 

Coach had sent him some video on the PawSox players to review. Opening them on his tablet, he analyzed the swings of each player and examined their stats for the season thus far. Ian was a good pitcher, maybe even a great one, but he felt that what he really had over his competition was how well he prepared. However, he was soon checking out his roommate’s stats online instead. Sure enough, the second baseman was impressive. He was leading the team in hits, RBI, and stolen bases. Ian couldn’t imagine how hot it would be to see him in action. If the pictures on the Web were any indication, he could wear the hell out of a baseball uniform. One photo led to another and another until he couldn’t find any more despite his best efforts.

Loading up Netflix, he gave up on the pretense of reviewing video and settled on his bed. He could at least get caught up on Mad Men so he could enjoy it on the team bus trips. His eyes were drooping after the first painfully boring episode and he drifted off without meaning to. When he woke it was after midnight and Mickey’s bed was sill empty. His mind immediately drifted back to bright blue eyes and fair skin. What was Mickey doing? Or _who_ was he doing? Ian shook the notion from his wretched head. 

Not wanting to give the impression that he’d ‘waited up’ after all, he shed his clothes down to his red boxer briefs and crossed the room to turn off the lights. He was reaching for the switch when he heard the click of the door announcing Mickey’s return. He jumped and then attempted a nonchalant pose as the brunet pushed into the room. From the look of him, Ian immediately suspected that Mickey had thrown back a few.

His roommate froze when he saw Ian standing in front of him, his eyes quickly traveling over Ian’s bare chest.

Ian cleared his throat. “Hey,” he greeted. 

“Hey.” Mickey’s eyes darted up to his face but he still hadn’t moved. 

“I was just turning out the light,” Ian explained, pointing to the nearby switch as if he needed evidence.

“Guess I got here just in time then,” Mickey said, licking his bottom lip. He leisurely raked his eyes over Ian’s body again.

Even Ian couldn't misinterpret that. The blatant eye fucking he'd just received was so thorough he was left craving nicotine. He couldn’t find words so he didn’t make a sound. Instead he stood, dazed, and seriously considering whether he was dreaming.

“You look damn good, Red,” Mickey drawled and began to approach.

Ian opened his mouth to say something, anything, but his brain was lost in a tailspin that there was no recovering from. He was sure he looked as dumbstruck as he felt. He swallowed heavily as Mickey closed the distance between them. When the brunet brushed past him, Ian’s face contorted in confusion and he swiveled to watch his roommate disappear into the bathroom.

_What the fuck just happened?_

His composure returned with the close of the bathroom door and he dove under the covers of his bed, his mind swirling with possibilities. Was Mickey just fucking with him? Was he drunk and genuinely interested?

When the second basement reentered the room, he padded across the carpet to switch off the light and then stood beside his bed. As he slid out of his pants and shirt, Ian didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t watching every movement.

Mickey climbed into bed, pulled the cover to his waist and rolled to face away from Ian. Suddenly his voice fractured the silence of the still room. “’Night, Gallagher,” he said. His tone was low, playful and not the slightest bit innocent.

“’Night,” Ian breathed back.

Ian lay awake and reeling long after he was sure he heard his roommate’s breaths even out with sleep. As he studied the back of the brunet head in the dim light, he could only come up with two things he knew for sure. One, he had never met a more confusing person in his entire life and two, if Mickey was playing some sort of game with him, he sure as fuck wasn’t going to be playing it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **BASEBALL TERMS IN THIS CHAPTER:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **DL** \- Disabled List (remove injured players from them roster to make room for healthy players)
> 
>  **RBI** \- Runs Batted In (a statistic that credits a batter for making a play that allows a run to be scored)


	3. Chapter 3

Mickey prided himself on his well-honed gaydar. It was one of the few gifts that growing up in the slums had bestowed upon him. After all, barking up the wrong tree in his neighborhood could have gotten him killed in a multitude of ways. Years of practice in the chauvinistic world of pro ball had further fine-tuned his skill.

Ian hadn’t even been a challenge. The pitcher was moony-eyed and fumbling over himself within minutes of their first interaction. It was inconceivable to Mickey that the guy had flown under the radar with his team in Seattle when it was so blatantly obvious.

And he had to admit, Ian was hot as hell. So, watching him lose his shit over him was as tempting as it was hilarious. Not tempting enough to actually do anything about it, nobody was, but at first he’d seen no harm in letting the kid squirm a little. He could be a relentless flirt when he saw something he liked and it wasn’t as if he’d had to do much to provoke it; just looking at the redhead proved to be enough to trigger his self destruct mode. Mickey fluctuated between feeling bad for the guy and being diabolically entertained by it all. Ian had seemed to have a better grip on things the second day but, by the time he’d smacked himself into the hotel wall like road kill, Mickey had landed firmly on the sympathy side of the spectrum. He didn't want to be responsible for anybody's meltdown, but besides making himself scarce, he had no clue how to stop it from happening. 

When he cracked his eyes open in the morning, the first thing that came into focus was Ian sitting up in bed playing on his tablet. He was bare-chested with his covers draped over his legs. Mickey lay still for a few minutes and let his eyes trail over the man. He couldn’t fathom how someone that looked like that could have a timid bone in their body. He was tall and chiseled and had that kickass red hair. Mickey hadn’t even known he had a thing for red hair until two days ago. The way it was tousled now from sleep was so soft and sexy that he couldn’t decide whether he’d rather run his fingers through it gently or fist it hard. Envisioning the latter had his morning wood straining against his boxer briefs.

It was perplexing to be so aroused by someone that had such a complete lack of game. Mickey generally went for the cocksure type, he knew it took a confident guy to handle him, but there was something intriguing about this ungainly pitcher from the South Side. He found himself wanting to know more about him; an inclination that he very rarely had and one he wasn't sure what to do with under the circumstances.

Ian shifted under the sheets and Mickey caught a glimpse of red fabric. It triggered the memory of being surprised by Ian when he’d come back to the room last night. He’d had a good buzz going so the details were a little hazy but he remembered his nearly naked roommate had looked really fucking good. This situation was bound to test his resolve because under no condition was he going to end up in bed with that ginger.

He'd made the mistake of getting involved with a teammate when he was in his second year of Single-A. Convinced that it’d be ideal to have easy access to casual sex, he'd started banging a rookie named Graham. It eventually imploded when Graham had gotten clingy and jealous; convinced that Mickey was fucking everything that walked even though Mickey had made it clear they weren't exclusive in the first place. There’d been no escape from it. He’d had to endure nearly every day with him for the remainder of the season - a very long three months. Graham’s game went to shit and he was cut at the end of the year. Mickey’s game suffered as well, albeit to a lesser degree and he’d had further to fall in the first place, but he could have lost everything. Now, four years later and four years wiser, his future was not something he was willing to gamble with again. The stakes were too high. Baseball was the only thing keeping him from returning to the brutal way of life he’d fought so hard to leave behind.

He took one last lingering look at Ian before he forced out a cough and rolled onto his back to alert him that he’d woken up.

“Morning,” Ian called cheerfully. If there was any awkwardness from the night before, it couldn’t be detected.

“Mornin',” Mickey responded, his voice thick with morning rasp.

“Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Didn’t.”

“You hungover? I’m gonna make coffee,” Ian offered.

“Not hungover, but I’ll have some.” Getting out of bed still wasn’t an option for him so he sat up, rubbed at his eyes and stayed put. Ian jumped from his own bed and, still wearing nothing but his red boxer briefs, strolled towards the coffeemaker. Mickey tracked him, enjoying the view, but mostly taken aback that the redhead’s shyness seemed to have diminished overnight.

Ian filled the coffee pot up in the bathroom and returned to fiddle with the machine, fully intending to make coffee in his underwear apparently. “Cream or sugar?” Ian asked, as he sifted through the provisions.

”Black’s good, thanks,” Mickey answered, not taking his eyes off the redhead. He might have been surprised by his new found confidence but he wasn’t about to waste an extended opportunity to stare at Ian’s ass. It was not helping him get things under control downstairs, however.

While Ian waited for the brew to finish he turned toward Mickey, placing his hands on the small counter behind him and leaning back against it. He looked like a goddamn underwear model. Mickey tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and forced himself to leave his eyes on the pitcher's face. Ian regarded him with a knowing smile. That was new.

“Have fun last night?” Ian asked with calculated nonchalance.

“It was alright,” Mickey replied carefully. He thought of the guy he’d met up with. It was their second time hooking up and it had only confirmed for him that he was a mediocre lay. He'd spent the remainder of the evening kicking back at a nearby pub, alone and drinking way more than he should have on the eve of a game, while he avoided spazzing out his roommate. It didn’t hurt that being there made it infinitely easier to ignore the urge to get to know Ian better. Two birds with one stone. 

“Didn’t drink too much?” Ian asked, his entire demeanor screaming that something had changed between them. 

Mickey's defenses started to go up. “Did someone drag my unconscious body in here and put me to bed?” 

“Not that I recall.”

“Then, no.”

Ian pursed his lips and uttered, “huh” before proceeding to let his eyes skim over the portion of Mickey's body that was visible above the sheets. No lie, it was lighting a fire in the brunet's belly to see this side of Ian, even if it was a bit unsettling; his hackles were raised almost as high as his dick. He decided the prudent course of action was to indulge in some blatant eye wandering himself; it was his specialty after all. They squared off for a few intense moments, Mickey paying particular attention to Ian’s crotch, until the redhead blanched under his gaze. Point to Mickey, no fucking contest.

The coffee maker beeped and Ian whirled around to busy himself with pouring their cups. Mickey studied the redhead's back as he appeared to steel himself, taking a deep breath before turning to face the bed again. “Coffee’s done,” he said, plastering on a smile that lacked some of the bravado of his previous ones. He gestured at the mug sitting a little behind and to the left of him and took a sip from his own. When Mickey didn’t move he lifted an eyebrow in his direction and adopted a teasing inflection. “You need me to bring it to you?”

Mickey narrowed his eyes at the brazen redhead. Evidently the jig was up and Ian had decided how he wanted to play it. Mickey wasn't about to be beat at his own game.

“I can get it myself just fine,” he replied smoothly, pushing the covers away and swinging his legs off the bed. He stood and pointedly ignored his raging hard-on but threw Ian a counter-smirk as he sauntered towards him.

Just as Mickey anticipated, the newly self-assured pitcher wasn’t so smug when confronted with his boner. Ian all but choked on his coffee before he shook his head, exhaled out a humorless laugh and stared intently at the floor.

Mickey drew nearer until he was toe to toe with the pitcher and the redhead had no choice but to look up. “What’s the matter, Gallagher?” he asked in a low tone. “You look anxious.” He bit his lip and slowly reached around Ian for his mug, letting his arm brush against his bare skin. Ian flinched almost imperceptibly but held Mickey's gaze and managed a tight smile. 

“I”m great. Never better,” he answered sweetly. 

Mickey dragged his tongue along his bottom lip and watched with satisfaction as it drew Ian's attention like a magnet. The pitcher stared at his mouth as the seconds ticked by until, remembering himself, he flicked his eyes back up to Mickey’s. There was so much heat in them, it made the second baseman's stomach flip in a way that he wasn't at all accustomed to, but he resisted retreat, letting the energy crackle between them one excruciating moment longer. With as much manufactured bluster as he could manage, he stepped back and withdrew to the relative safety of the sofa. He sipped at his coffee and awaited Ian's next move.

His roommate stalked to the sofa and sat beside him, much closer than necessary given its size. Mickey smiled at him and moved closer still. Ian returned his smile and scooted until barely an inch separated them. Mickey, unwilling to be outdone, closed the space between them entirely and brought their sides flush. They drank their coffees in charged silence, each attempting to outdo the others indifference. If anyone had been in the room to see it, it would have looked absurd; two underwear clad men, pushed together on one cushion but pretending the other didn't exist.

Whatever the fuck had gotten into his roommate, Mickey was undeniably turned on by it; his balls were starting to ache from the need to do something about his stubborn erection. He figured he might as well use it to his advantage. A few minutes into their standoff, he drained his mug in a few big gulps and stared at Ian’s profile. “I’m gonna go rub this out in the shower,” he divulged bluntly, motioning to his crotch. Ian opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out besides a squeak in the back of his throat. Mickey rose and crossed the room with his usual gusto, shucking his underwear just outside the bathroom and tossing them on top of his nearby bag. He proceeded inside, leaving the door wide open behind him.

He stepped into the shower and tried to relax under the cool spray. Ian had him wound the fuck up. Goddamned sexy cocksucker. One minute he’s running around acting like a fucking Disney character and the next he’s… Mickey didn’t even know what. He couldn’t keep the fuck up. 

He heard a noise from within the bathroom and swiped the curtain aside. Ian was zipping up at the toilet.

“Oh, hey! Whatcha doin'?” Mickey snarked pleasantly.

“Just had to _piss_ ,” Ian said, smiling with clenched teeth. He moved to put his hands under the faucet.

“No fucking problem,” Mickey replied. “It's perfect, actually. You mind standin' right there for a couple minutes? It'd really help me the fuck out.”

Ian gawked at him. His arm jerked, accidentally sending toiletries flying over the vanity. He swore and grappled with them as they clattered around in the bowl of the sink, slamming them one by one back onto the flat surface. 

“Careful Bambi, there are sharp objects there,” Mickey mocked.

“Ha!” Ian snapped bitterly. Toothpaste had tumbled between the toilet and cupboard and he bent to pick it up. He smashed it down on the counter and turned blazing eyes on his roommate. “Why are you fucking with me, Mickey?”

“What, don’t you want me to fuck with you?” Mickey asked, his voice dripping with false sincerity.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Not denying that, but you’re the one putting on a show this morning, not me.”

“Oh, you’re putting on quite the show,” Ian said, gesturing at the lower half of Mickey’s body but not actually letting his eyes drop.

”Thanks.” He grinned, garnering an eye roll from Ian. “I guess cocky motherfuckers must do it for me.”

“Well assholes don’t do it for me,” Ian spat.

Mickey’s eyebrows nearly reached his hairline at that and Ian realized what he'd said. The men stared at one another for a beat before both of their faces fractured into authentic grins for the first time that morning. Despite themselves, the ridiculousness of their behavior began to sink in.

With the tension eased, Mickey decided to try for some damage control. He tugged the curtain over to cover his nakedness. “Look man, I’m not fucking with you.” Being a cocky little shit, yes, but not exactly messing with him. Not recently anyway. Unnecessary details given how pissed the guy had just been.

Ian crossed his arms and regarded him with a skeptical expression. “No? Then what was that bullshit last night?” he asked.

“What bullshit?” Mickey was honestly baffled.

“When you came back to the room. All the eye fucking and the 'you look damn good, Red.'” He said that last part in his best imitation of Mickey's sultry voice from the previous evening, like it'd been on repeat in his head since then.

Mickey's face twisted in confusion. “I said that out loud?” Ian squinted at him. “You looked good. Sorry I told you?”

Ian flushed and dropped his eyes to watch himself toe at a grout line on the floor. Neither of them spoke, not knowing quite what to say. Mickey weirdly felt like comforting him but it wasn't exactly his forte. Besides, he was naked and still in the shower so the timing wasn't great.

“Can we talk about this in ten?” Mickey proposed when the quiet stretched awkwardly.

Ian gave him a curt nod and left the room, closing the door behind him.

 _Jesus_ , Mickey thought. It would seem that despite his best efforts, he had caused a fucking breakdown after all. His mind felt fried from that revelation. It was clear Ian had been stressed to the fucking max though so he wasn't surprised it hadn't taken much to push him over the edge. He washed up slowly, wrapped a towel around his waist and left the room to grab his bag. He didn't look for Ian, just turned back into the bathroom to get dressed in private. Something he'd literally never bothered to do in his entire baseball career.

Ian was sitting on the sofa watching him when he returned, the fire completely gone from his eyes. He'd decided to put on some clothes as well. Mickey briefly mourned the loss of the spectacular view he’d had before remembering it was definitely for the best.

He sat on the end of the bed closest to the sofa and faced Ian who seemed lost in thought. Mickey kept his mouth shut; this was uncharted territory for him and everything he thought of to say sounded lousy in his own mind. 

“So,you’re gay?” Ian finally questioned uncertainly.

Mickey didn't hesitate, he wasn't concerned about Ian knowing. “Let’s just say I bat for both your teams,” he told him. “That doesn’t leave this room, obviously.” 

“Obviously.”

If there was anybody who could keep that kind of secret it’d be another gay dude in the same boat. “I won't say shit either. I knew you were gay like five minutes after I met you.”

Ian scoffed. “Five?”

Mickey scratched at his neck. “Honestly, less.”

“Fuck.”

“My gaydar is the shit, man, but you have zero chill.”

“I usually do. Have chill.” Ian looked like he wanted to find a hole to crawl into.

Mickey snorted and eyed him doubtfully. “If you say so.” Ian leaned back into the sofa with a sigh. “And I’m not gonna lie, it’s fuckin’ tempting but I don’t want this to be a problem.”

“This?” 

“Yeah, wanting to bang.”

“Who says I want to bang?” Ian feigned indignation.

Mickey gave him an incredulous look and the redhead huffed out a wry laugh.

“Well whether you want to or not, we can’t, and I don’t want that to be a problem. We both got too much to lose.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Ian was nodding slowly. He sounded like he was trying hard to convince himself that that was, in fact, true.

“I’m human though. I’m gonna check you out if you walk around in your fuckin’ underwear.” 

“Ditto.”

“But I won’t fuck with you and you won’t fuck with me,” he paused, “and I mean that in every sense.”

“We’re on the same page,” Ian assured him with more certainty.

“Good. So, you gonna be able to keep it the fuck together then? Or you planning on doin’ some more naked swan dives in the locker room?”

Ian let out a long exhale before learning forward and burying his face in his hands. “I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me,” he groaned. He split his fingers to look at Mickey with one eye. “And can we please stop bringing that up? I’ve suffered enough.”

Mickey couldn't help but smile. “If you thought you were suffering before, how ‘bout now that you know I’m actually gay?” he teased.

Ian lowered his hands. “Keep that up and it shouldn’t be too difficult,” he countered with a chuckle.

“Right, 'cause assholes don't do it for you.” Mickey caught himself throwing Ian a suggestive smirk and toned it down. Old habits die hard. Ian grinned at him though.

The men observed each other in companionable silence.

“I’ve never told anyone on any of my teams that I was into guys,” Ian confessed.

“Well, technically, you didn’t tell me either,” Mickey pointed out.

Ian winced before continuing. “Anyway, it might be nice to have, you know, a friend,” he cleared his throat, “that gets it. Gets what it’s like.”

Mickey did get it. All too well. He gave Ian a tight smile. “You out with your family?” he asked. 

“Yeah. They’re great, I’m lucky.”

“You are,” Mickey agreed without elaborating.

“Anyone else on the team know about you?”

Mickey shrugged. “Don't think so.” He glanced away and contemplated doing something he didn't often do: extending a real apology. He swiped a knuckle across his nose and sniffed before plunging ahead. “Look, I'm sorry for bein' a dick this mornin',” he offered. “I didn't know what the fuck was going on.”

Ian shook his head. “I started it. I should be the one apologizing.”

“Nah. It's cool,” Mickey consoled. “It was kinda hot.” He waggled his eyebrows at his somber teammate.

Ian laughed. “Yeah, it kinda was,” he agreed. 

“So, we're good?” Mickey asked, wondering since when he'd started giving a crap if he was still good with anybody he'd pissed off. 

“We're good,” Ian assured him. 

The conversation lapsed as they both searched for something of consequence to add to the heavy exchange. They were still nearly strangers and there'd already been a need to clear the air between them. It felt like the groundwork for something had been laid though and that was enough for now.

“We better get this shit show on the road,” Mickey sighed, glancing at the clock. “Breakfast is over in like fifteen minutes.”

Ian nodded and then let out an agonized groan.

“What?” Mickey shot him a puzzled look.

“The goddamn costume.”

Mickey rocked his head back and barked a laugh towards the ceiling. “I'll bring you some shit back,” he said, leveling his gaze back on Ian.

“You don't mind?”

“Not gonna let you starve.” 

He left, promising Ian that he’d be back shortly.

On his way to the breakfast buffet he considered how his morning with his new roommate had transpired. He couldn't have planned for any of it go down that way but he wasn’t unhappy that it had. He remembered what it was like to be a rookie on this team. Ian had more than enough on his mind and hashing all of this out now would mean one less stressor moving forward. Everyone’s mind, including his own, needed to be on the game.

Bowser blocked his path to the buffet as soon as he stepped off the elevator, “Gallagher being a good dog?” he asked.

Mickey was instantly irritated. Most of his teammates aggravated the fuck out of him, even the ones he liked, and the outfielder was one of the worst offenders. “Do you think maybe you take this hazing shit a little too seriously?”

“Milkovich…” he straightened to his full height and crossed his arms. He leveled Mickey with what he undoubtedly thought was his most fear inducing glare.

The outfielder's imposing height and stern expression didn’t intimidate Mickey in the slightest. “No, _Bowser_ ,” Mickey hated that stupid moniker, “do you really expect him to not eat for the next three days?”

“Where’s your team spirit, Mickey?”

“Where’s my team fuckin’ spirit? He’s pitching tomorrow and you think starving him is good for the team?” Mickey screwed up his face at the halfwit. He shook his head and pushed past him. Bowser had enough good sense not to follow.

Mickey made a valiant effort to not get involved in any of the juvenile bullshit that most of his teammates seemed to enjoy so much. When he did get dragged in, it was kicking and complaining all the way. He hadn’t given a shit about what they did to the rookies since he was a rookie himself. So feeling compelled to defend Ian was an all new sentiment for him; one he'd had on the bus when he'd helped him and one he was having now. 

He’d forgotten to ask Ian what the heck he liked to eat so he piled a plate high with every variety of fruit and pastry available and filled another with bacon, eggs and forks. Stuffing two bottles of juice into the waistband of his sweatpants, he headed back towards the bank of elevators, raising his eyebrows at Bowser on his way, daring him to say something. Predictably, he kept his mouth firmly shut.

When he arrived back at the room he kicked at the base of the door a few times until Ian opened it for him. “You know, you can tell Bowser to go fuck himself,” he advised Ian as soon as he'd set foot inside. “Fucking moron, constantly overcompensating for his tiny dick.”

“He’s got a small dick?” Ian was surprised, understandably - the guy was massive. He took a plate from Mickey and they both walked to the counter.

“His locker's right next to yours, how did you not notice?”

“I... try not to look,” Ian confessed.

“Huh. Well, I got no problem lookin’.” Ian averted his eyes and Mickey scoffed at him. “Right, like you got anything to worry about.” He'd been thoroughly impressed when he'd seen what the redhead was packin' and he hadn't even experienced it in its full glory yet. _Ever_ , he scolded himself. 

Not for the first time, Mickey caught himself wondering if the redhead knew how to use what God had gifted him. It'd be a damn shame if he didn't.

Ian blushed endearingly and busied himself with opening his drink. Mickey realized they'd divided up the food while they were talking, without even discussing it, as if they'd done it a hundred times before. They settled on their respective beds just as they had for supper the previous day. It was weirdly comfortable considering how they'd started their morning.

“Anyway, those gloves are fuckin' ridiculous and he’s an asshole for making you wear them,” Mickey continued, incensed on his behalf.

“It's only three more days,” Ian said, shrugging it off. “What'd they make the rookies do last year?”

Mickey chuckled at the memory. “You ever heard of an elephant walk?” Ian shook his head no. “Look it up sometime,” he suggested around his mouthful of food. He hoped he was there to see Ian's face when he did. “You going to the park early a regular thing you do?” he asked, remembering their first encounter.

“You could say that, yeah.”

For some reason, Mickey was about to do something else he'd never done in his baseball career – invite someone in on his pre-game ritual. He didn't even travel to the park with his roommate back in Buffalo, and he'd lived with the guy for a year. His quiet moments on the field in the hours before a game were sacred. “Wanna head over after this?” he asked, a little amazed by how easy that had been to do.

Ian cocked his head, considering. “Sure,” he said as he chewed at his lip.

Mickey fought the confounding feeling of disappointment that overcame him when his offer hadn't had any discernible effect on the redhead. Yesterday, Ian would have been doing any number of cockamamie things at the mere thought of going anywhere with him. Then, the smile that the pitcher had been trying to hide bloomed at the corners of his mouth before erupting onto his face. Mickey watched its ascent like a sunrise. He couldn't have stopped himself from grinning like a sap at its appearance if he'd tried.


	4. Chapter 4

Mickey was gay. He’d told Ian himself. That was a thing that had actually fucking happened.

Ian had agreed with Mickey that they were off limits to each other. He’d meant it. Or, he’d wanted to mean it. He knew, logically, that getting involved with his teammate could end in disaster, but at the same time, it was like the baseball Gods had bestowed a gift upon him. And who was he to deny it? Mickey was gay after all. He’d told him himself. That was a thing that had actually fucking happened.

His thoughts played on a loop as he watched Mickey light up a cigarette. They stood just outside the visitor’s dugout at McCoy Stadium, having arrived and made their way onto the field as soon as Ian had stripped off his Goofy costume.

Mickey caught him staring at his mouth. “You smoke? I only got this one but you can have a drag.”

He didn't anymore, hadn’t for years, but the prospect of tasting Mickey on that filter was too enticing. He held out his hand and the brunet passed it over. Ian placed it between his lips and felt the slightest dampness from where Mickey had been only moments before. It was a pity that the only flavors he could identify were paper and nicotine, but it was a rush nonetheless. He played it cool when the smoke made his eyes water and handed it back.

Mickey studied him. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

He shook his head, a little embarrassed, and let the cough out that he’d been trying to suppress. “Games, bus trips, being stuck in hotel rooms – it's a killer on the habit,” he said.

“Yer fuckin' right it is. I get maybe two a day.”

When they'd emerged from the dugout onto the field, Ian wasn't sure whether he should move away and give the second baseman some space; Mickey had invited him to ride over with him but he hadn't wanted to have any expectations beyond that. Mickey had kept conversing with him though, so he’d stayed nearby. They’d chatted about the stadium, the sweltering heat and some of the players on the other team. Talking about baseball with Mickey was like a tonic for Ian’s nerves. It was when they grew quiet that his mind would torment him with the significance of this morning’s revelations. 

He’d been so sure that Mickey was messing with him. The possibility that he could be into Ian at all, after all his awkward antics, seemed like such a remote possibility that he’d barely considered it. He’d woken up feeling like the world’s biggest fool but had ended up making even more of an idiot of himself. Mickey had made it seem like no big deal in the end and he was grateful for that at least. But now what was he supposed to do with the fact that his roommate was not only gay but that he actually found him attractive? It was simultaneously the best and worst possible development.

“Asshole named Holland’s the home plate ump tonight,” Mickey complained, bringing Ian out of his thoughts.

“He’s no good?”

Mickey snorted. “Tossed me from a game last month.”

“What’d you do?”

“Asked him if his wife was gonna be pissed when she found out he’d been screwin’ us all night.” He paused. “And some other stuff, but that one was the kicker.”

Ian laughed. ”You know you can’t say shit to the umps.”

“Fuckin’ popsicle’s got no sense of humor,” Mickey grumbled.

“Popsicle?”

“Yeah, you know, he’s got a big stick up his ass.”

This wasn’t helping, that Ian _liked_ Mickey. He was snarky and rude and rough around the edges but Ian was undeniably charmed by him. The whole team seemed to be; they didn’t blink at any of the offensive things he did. Maybe it was because it was apparent that he had a good heart or maybe it was that he managed to be sincere in a way that most people weren’t. For Ian, it was that but also that he reminded him so much of home.

He pictured Mickey wreaking havoc on the streets of the South Side and it made him smile. He would have made the most adorable thug imaginable.

Mickey side-eyed him and Ian wondered if the man could read his thoughts. He steered them safely back to baseball. His eyes found the curve of the mound. He was looking forward to watching his new team play but it had barely sunk in that it would be him on that mound tomorrow. 

“You feelin’ good about tomorrow?” Mickey asked.

Ian gaped at him. He was definitely a fucking mind reader.

“What?” the brunet questioned.

“I just… you… nothing,” Ian stammered. _Wonderful_ , back to not being able to form sentences. Not that it mattered, Mickey probably knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“Well, at least you’re real calm and collected,” Mickey ribbed.

Ian blew out a sigh. “It’ll be good,” he stated, presenting a certainty he wasn’t sure he felt. “I need to get back out there.” It’s true that there was nowhere he felt more confident; he just wished he’d spent the last few days preparing instead of thinking about his teammate. There was still time. 

They relaxed against the dugout railing and fell into an easy silence, letting their senses feast on the park around them. Ian already felt more comfortable in Mickey’s presence. Him knowing that he was gay took a tremendous weight off; at least he didn’t have to worry that his behavior would expose him anymore. It already had and everything was mostly okay.

When they heard the bustle of their teammates come crashing into the clubhouse, dropped off by the team buses, they made their way back inside. The men were already starting to change into their practice gear.

“How’d you get here?” Melendez asked when he saw Ian.

“Got a cab with Mickey.”

Melendez furrowed his brow. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s good you’re getting along.”

“He’s… nice.”

“Huh.”

“What?” Ian asked, starting to get irritated.

“Nothing.”

Ian narrowed his eyes at him. It was obviously something. 

Melendez shifted under his scrutiny before he relented. “He’s usually pissy about anyone bothering him before practice. He must like you.”

_Huh._

He wasn’t sure what to make of that but it made him feel weightless. 

He glanced over at Mickey who was changing out of his street clothes near his locker. Ian was getting used to seeing him practically naked. It still got his pulse racing but he didn’t have to fight the impulse to bolt. To Melendez, it probably seemed as innocuous as anyone else looking at their teammate. 

Ian turned his attention back to the third baseman. “We’re both from Chicago. We’ve got a lot in common,” he reasoned, shrugging.

“Huh,” Melendez said again, maddeningly. 

***

They made their way onto the field for practice. The heat of the day had yet to dissipate. It was absolutely suffocating and had to be the hottest of the year thus far. Given that his start was the next day, Ian wouldn’t be throwing any pitches but he did have to do sprints with the pitchers that weren’t shagging. He was drenched after the first two and pulled his shirt off as soon as he saw others doing the same. The batters that were lucky enough to wait their turn in the shade of the dugout catcalled the pitchers in jest. Mickey didn’t join in, but Ian was acutely aware that the second baseman’s eyes were trained on him. He’d never put so much effort into sprints in his life, leaving his teammates in the dust every single time. 

At the end of practice, the players meandered back into the clubhouse to get ready for the game. Earlier, Ian had found his gear in a locker just two down from Mickey’s. He stood at it now, with Mickey to his left and no one in between them yet. His game uniform hung from a hook inside. He’d been awed by it when he’d first seen it a few hours earlier and he couldn’t wait to finally try it on for size. Stripping out of his remaining clothes, he pulled on a new pair of underwear before chancing a peek at Mickey.

He promptly learned something about his own anatomy - he was capable of getting a rock hard erection in two seconds flat. 

Mickey's ass was already perfect, but seeing it in a jockstrap was fucking jaw dropping. Literally. Ian ogled it openly, with absolutely no concern for who may or may not be in the room. It wasn’t as if he had a choice in the matter, he was practically malfunctioning.

Mickey glanced over his shoulder, saw Ian and gave him a reproachful look. “Gallagher,” he admonished.

Ian came back to life with a huff and gestured towards Mickey’s backside. “I mean, come the fuck on,” he hissed. He couldn't even feel ashamed for his lack of control, it was utterly defensible. 

“You might wanna…,” Mickey whispered, gesturing at Ian’s tented boxer briefs. 

_Fuck_. He dropped into the chair beside his locker but it only gave him a better angle to view the masterpiece. Thank God the second baseman already knew he was gay and was more than okay with it. If he hadn't and wasn't, he certainly would know now and Ian would likely have a broken nose.

His eyes bulged as Mickey slipped his cup in the front of the jockstrap. The brunet shook his head at him but his chuckle gave away his satisfaction with Ian’s reaction. He reached into his locker for his uniform pants and pulled them on, buckling his belt as Ian continued to stare. He slipped a white t-shirt over his head and then buttoned his jersey over top of it.

“Show’s over,” he quipped when he finished with the last button.

It most certainly was not. In the flesh, Mickey in a baseball uniform was even better than Ian had anticipated. 

“You gonna get dressed?” Mickey asked, attempting to reboot the redhead.

Ian was too preoccupied with swooning for such endeavors. Besides, he probably wouldn’t be able to get his pants on for a few more minutes.

“Soon,” he promised. “I may need you to leave first.” The uniform, knowing what was under the uniform, having it all right in front of him – it wasn’t conducive to his dick deflating.

Mickey laughed out loud at that and sat to pull on his socks and turf shoes. Ian didn’t move until the second baseman had smirked at him and walked away. By then, there were more men in the locker room and the hubbub helped Ian’s blood redistribute. It was a damn good thing Mickey’s locker was on the other side of the room in Buffalo.

When, at last, he climbed into his Bison’s uniform, Mickey returned to admire him. “You make that look good,” he praised when there was no one in earshot.

Ian really needed Mickey to not say shit like that if he didn’t want to get jumped.

“Thanks. You too,” he said in lieu of assaulting the man.

***

McCoy Stadium could house a little over 10,000 spectators. By MLB standards that may not have been much, but to Ian it was. UDub’s home field had had 2,200 seats and they were never full. Neither was this one today but it was still a sight to behold. 

The place buzzed with pregame energy. There was music blasting from the loud speakers; polar bears spinning children around on the field; vendors hawking their wares over the din of the crowd; and the players, who streamed around him, donned their caps, found their gloves and stretched their shoulders. 

Ian stood still and took it all in. He may not be playing today but he was thrilled to be a part of this. Playing pro ball had been his dream for as long as he could remember and he was finally here. 

Mickey squeezed his shoulder as he walked past, as if he knew what this moment meant to him. But then, of course he knew, and Ian liked him even more for it.

Soon, the polar bears made way for a young lady to take the field and sing the national anthem. Once everyone was feeling suitably patriotic, the PawSox players took their positions and the umpire gave the signal to start the game.

Ian watched with interest as Mickey donned a batting helmet, selected a bat and headed out onto the field. As the leadoff hitter for the visitors he was also the first batter of the game. The leadoff spot was reserved for the best and fastest hitters on the team and judging by the stats Ian had perused the night before, the second baseman fit the bill. His job was to get on base and be in position to score by the time the cleanup hitter came to bat.

Mickey's picture and stats appeared on the JumoTron behind the right field stands as he approached the batter’s box with his usual swagger. There was no exchange of smiles or idle chit chat with the catcher or ump. He dug his feet into his stance and commenced hurling a death stare at the pitcher on the mound. Ian hoped he never had to face-off against the man because it looked a little terrifying.

The pitcher launched his first pitch towards home plate and, with that, the game had begun. Mickey watched two curveballs float by, outside of the strike zone, before swinging and missing at a slider that sailed across the plate. The fourth pitch was a fastball that would have been a strike but Mickey connected and sent it bouncing to third. The third baseman handled it cleanly but Mickey was _fast_. He made it to first just ahead of the ball and sauntered back to the base sporting a breathless grin that made Ian want to run over there and hump him into the dirt. God he was beautiful.

As the next batter came to the box, Ian’s eyes never strayed from the runner on first. The pitcher and first baseman were obviously on high alert and doing their best to keep him in check but Mickey’s entire demeanor screamed ‘I’m stealing second and there’s fuck all you can do about it’. The pitcher in Ian knew how frustrating it was to have a runner like that but the horny man in him thought cocky Mickey was welcome to steal any base from him whenever the hell he wanted. 

He took off on the third pitch and, from the moment he did, it was clear he’d make it. Mickey slid into second with time to spare and popped up happily to wink at the PawSox’s second baseman. The Bison’s dugout erupted in cheers and Mickey nodded in their direction before dusting himself off and settling in low to watch the next pitch.

The batter smacked a pop fly to right field, deep enough to allow Mickey to tag and move to third. The third batter grounded to the shortstop leaving Mickey stuck for the moment but, when Bowser came up in the clean-up spot and hit a single up the middle, he beat the throw to home and scored.

He made it all look so easy. There were some great players in college ball but watching Mickey was Ian’s first clear message that he was in a whole new league.

The second baseman returned to the dugout and yielded to the obligatory high fives and butt pats. Ian opted for a safe nug and sat back down. To his delight, Mickey plopped down beside him.

“You’re fast,” Ian complimented. “I’m glad I don’t have to pitch against you.”

“Had to be in the South Side.” Mickey lifted his eyebrows at him then titled his head back to squeeze half a bottle of water into his mouth. His cheeks bulged as he chugged it down. 

Ian nodded knowingly. “I'm impressed,” he said and immediately felt his cheeks flush.

“Fuck off,” Mickey shrugged it off and ducked his head but he was smiling. Was this the Mickey Milkovich version of being bashful? Whatever it was, it had Ian’s heart racing and his own smile spreading.

The brunet had him distracted enough that when Mickey jumped off the bench to grab his glove, Ian genuinely wondered where he was going.

_Game. Right._

With his first start looming, he pried his eyes off his favorite infielder and vowed to watch the PawSox batters closely. He cursed himself each time his eyes drifted away from the player at home plate. Mickey just looked so… good. The way he crouched, his whole body taught and focused; the way he shuffled with each pitch, so in sync with the pitcher’s movements on the mound. Were all infielders this fascinating to watch and he'd just never noticed? His eyes drifted to their third baseman, their shortstop and finally to their first baseman. The answer was no. Unequivocally no.

John Axford, a veteran starting pitcher sitting beside him, said something that he was too zoned out to register.

“Sorry, what?” Ian asked.

“I said, you look like you’re going to stare a hole through Shafer. What do you think of his changeup?”

_Shafer?_

“Um. It’s…,” Ian searched for an answer that wasn’t _Mickey_ because that would make no fucking sense whatsoever, “decent.” That seemed neutral enough considering he hadn’t been watching their pitcher at all.

Axford screwed up his face. “Yeah? I think he’s got to drop it. He’s been changing up his mechanics to get a better sink but it’s messing with his fastball, causing it to lag. If he could throw a fastball like you it wouldn’t matter.” He smiled at Ian then and stuffed a handful of sunflower seeds in his mouth. “You got a good changeup?”

“It’s alright. Hard and accurate is more my thing though.” He returned the other pitcher’s smile, all the while thinking if he had just said that to Mickey he’d surely be getting smirked at. His mind was hopelessly in the gutter.

“Well, I’m looking forward to seeing you pitch tomorrow. I’m pitching Friday so you’ll have to wear them out for me.”

“I’ll try,” Ian assured him distractedly. His teammates were streaming into the dugout and he realized the inning was over. He looked to the scoreboard and saw it was still 1-0. At least he hadn’t missed much. Mickey didn’t sit on the bench this time but stood with his arms crossed on the railing facing the field. He was far enough away and surrounded by enough people that Ian’s eyes finally had a reprieve from his magnetism. He saw the entire top of the second inning. Progress.

It was still 1-0 at the top of the third. The Bison’s didn’t score but Ian appreciated that he got to see Mickey bat again despite it ending in a fly ball to left. In the bottom of the third, the PawSox scored two runs and the Bison’s got one back in the top of the fourth. The PawSox immediately rallied for another run in the bottom of the same inning. No one added to the scoreboard in the fifth, leaving it 3-2 PawSox going into the sixth.

More often than not, Mickey would plant himself at the dugout railing when he wasn’t on the field. He was getting increasingly frustrated with the home plate umpire; the insults he was hurling fortunately out of earshot. His teammates were cracking up with every zinger. Not that they were immune from his heckles themselves. When Melendez had failed to stop a ball at third Mickey had asked him if he had ‘a hole in his fuckin’ glove’. Melendez had laughed, swatted at him with the glove in question and Mickey had grinned.

The sky grew dark and the stadium lights drenched the field in light. This was Ian’s favorite time to be at the ballpark. It was even better that the crowd was really invested in the close game. They chanted and booed and cheered en masse. It was exhilarating and Ian had a smile plastered on his face the entire time.

Mickey was up at bat first in the sixth. He hit a single past the short stop and then got to second after tagging up on a fly ball. He was stranded there by the third hitter of the inning and headed right back out to the field for the bottom of the sixth.

Ian stood at the railing to watch the remainder of the inning and was joined by Mickey in the top of the seventh. They watched the PawSox middle reliever cross the field to take the mound. 

“Fuck, not this guy,” Mickey griped.

“A lefty,” Ian observed.

“We haven’t hit fuck all off him this year.” He lifted his hat and scratched at his head then put it back on. 

The bottom of their lineup was on deck. Ian observed the PawSox pitcher closely, wondering what made him so successful against his team. His left handedness was an advantage for sure. As Mickey had forecast, the first two batters had no luck against him. The mood in the dugout began to descend.

By the time the second batter of the inning was struck out on a 3-2 count, Ian had noticed a subtle pattern with the PawSox pitcher’s kick in his wind up. He’d predicted that the sixth pitch was going to be his slider and it was. He glanced at Mickey.

“Hey,” he said. Mickey raised an eyebrow at him. “The pitcher… um…” What the fuck was the pitcher’s name?

“Haley,” Mickey offered.

“Right, Haley. I think he’s got a tell. Watch how he kicks on his wind-up.” Ian gestured toward the field. He correctly guessed, “fastball,” before the ball had even left the pitcher’s hand. “His leg goes higher when he’s winding up for a fastball. When he’s throwing a slider it’s to the side and his curveball is lower. Just keep watching.”

The count was 2-2 but Melendez, who was at bat at the moment, had fouled the last pitch into the stands. The next pitch was a slider that Melendez also fouled off, followed by a fastball that he struck out on. Mickey nodded. “I see it. Not sure if you could pick it up from the box though.”

Moments later, Melendez was coming down the dugout steps to grab his glove and most of the team was jogging out to the field for the bottom of the seventh. They held the PawSox off and managed to get a runner on base in the top of the eighth.

Mickey was back up to bat with one out. He walked to the batter’s box with all the swagger he’d demonstrated in his first two at bats. The man could not not be sexy. The first pitch came in high and outside and Mickey sat on it. It was called a strike and Ian could see Mickey huff and step back from the batter’s box. He said something to the ump and Ian held his breath, hoping it wasn’t bad enough to get him kicked out. Whatever it was, the umpire shook his head at him and Mickey stepped back into the box.

He sat on the next pitch as well but cranked a whopper on the third. It made it to the warning track in center-left before careening off the wall. The runner on base scored and Mickey was able to slide into third. This time when Mickey nodded at the lively visitor’s dugout he was looking directly at Ian. He’d tied it up and they now had the go ahead run on third. Ian’s teammates crowded around the railing with him to watch.

The next batter hit a fly ball to center field that Mickey was able to tag up and score on. The Bison’s jumped and hollered in celebration. Mickey trotted into the dugout with a gigantic smile on his face and thumped Ian twice on the ass on his way to grab a water bottle. 

The Bison’s closer came in for the bottom of the eighth and they held onto their lead to the end, winning the game by a score of 4 to 3. The Bison’s were jubilant, swarming each other on the field. They paid special attention to Mickey: tapping foreheads with him, tousling his hair, praising his contribution. When he got to Ian, Mickey bro hugged him and patted the back of his head before he moved on.

Ian’s heart stuttered in his chest. The coroner might as well make the certificate now because Mickey was officially going to be the death of him. 

***

Ian headed for the showers where a few of his teammates were already washing up. He took a spot beside Bowser and plunged his head under the water. When he opened his eyes, Mickey was at the shower across from him, a short wall between them. He was staring at him like he wanted his attention.

 _What?_ Ian mouthed.

Mickey darted his eyes to Bowser and down. Ian knew what he was hinting at. He risked a quick glance at the outfielder’s lower half and was rewarded with a glimpse of his dick. It was puny and its proximity to the man’s tree trunk legs was doing it no favors. Ian grinned and looked back at his co-conspirator. Mickey gave him his most animated _I told you_ expression and they shared a smile. He then dove under the spray with his eyes closed, running his fingers through his hair and then down his chest.

Ian wanted nothing more than to tear down the wall between them, wrap Mickey in his arms and taste the water running off his neck. He’d never known torture like this. He couldn’t fathom why life had to be so unnecessarily cruel. 

Before his dick could betray his thoughts he finished up his shower and left. If he snuck a peek at Mickey’s wet ass on his way by, he couldn’t be blamed. There was only so much that could be expected of him. At least he now had a towel to hide whatever trouble that view had stirred up.

Pizza boxes had arrived in the locker room while Ian had been cleaning up. He threw on some underwear and inhaled two slices before Bowser or anyone else could take notice. 

__***_ _

__The buses would be leaving to return them to the hotel shortly. Ian packed up anything he needed to take back to the Hamilton Inn and climbed into his Goofy costume._ _

__He lost track of Mickey while he was changing and talking with his teammates, but found him in the hall. He had his back turned to him as he spoke with a player Ian recognized from the other team; _Evans_ he thought. The guy had his head cocked and was smiling at Mickey with an easy familiarity. Maybe they had played together before, friendships didn't necessarily dissolve just because players changed teams, but the way he was looking at Mickey that had Ian instantly bristling. _ _

__The guy was about the same height as Ian, dark skinned and conventionally handsome with nice eyes and a full mouth. He was the type of man Ian might have gone for under different circumstances, which only served to annoy him further._ _

__He stood to the side and watched them for a moment. As Evans chuckled at something Mickey said he ran his fingers down the strap of the second baseman’s bag. Ian had seen enough, he lowered his head, intent on walking past without making eye contact._ _

__“Gallagher!” Mickey called when he saw him. The redhead turned and looked at him hopefully. “I'll see you at the hotel in an hour or so.”_ _

__Ian nodded and smiled through his suffering. Evans was eyeing him in his stupid costume, probably wondering who the pathetic loser was. Ian turned his back on them and held his head high until he was out of sight. He’d save his moping for the bus._ _

__Two hours later, when Mickey returned to their room, he knocked. Ian went to the door and opened it. “You forget your key?” he asked._ _

__“Nah, didn’t wanna scare you.”_ _

__“Funny.”_ _

__Mickey grinned at him. “You get some review done?” he asked as they walked further into the room._ _

__“Yeah, a bit,” Ian replied. He’d been just as preoccupied as usual lately but he’d kept at it. He wasn’t sure how much he’d actually absorbed. He sat on his bed and watched Mickey dig through his bag, pulling out clothes._ _

__“Good,” he said. “I’m gonna get a quick shower.”_ _

__Ian’s stomach dropped. Mickey had showered after the game and he could think of only one reason why he’d be having another one now. He knew he had no right to care but that didn’t stop it from stinging._ _

__Mickey gathered up his belongings and stepped into the bathroom. As soon as he closed the door behind him, Ian slid out of his clothes and into his bed. He had more review to do but it wasn’t happening with the unwelcome image of Evans and Mickey burning a hole in his head. He couldn’t deal with Mickey or his telepathy right now either. He faced the wall and focused on slowing his breaths._ _

__When Mickey came out of the bathroom he moved around quietly, so perhaps he had bought the ruse. It wasn’t long before the brunet had turned out the light and settled into his own bed._ _

Once again, Ian found himself awake long after he was sure Mickey had fallen asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Ian woke to Mickey's voice.

“Yo, Gallagher, rise and fuckin' shine.”

It was way too early. He pulled the covers up further and huddled under them.

A pillow hit him in the back of the head.

“Gallagher, get the fuck up,” Mickey insisted. “I got you breakfast. If you wanna eat before the game you need to move.”

“I'm tired,” Ian groaned.

“The fuck? You went to bed at 11:30.”

Ian mumbled something incomprehensible.

“Suit yourself. I'm heading to the park in half an hour with or without you.”

Ian rolled over and glared at his roommate. He knew Mickey was trying to be helpful but he was too annoyed with him to care. He'd spent half the night analyzing Mickey's mixed signals. Where'd the guy get off telling him they shouldn't be fucking with each other and then inviting him to the field, flirting with him, touching him; only to go and hook up with some asshole on the other fucking team. He was done with his bullshit.

He pushed himself out of bed and headed to the bathroom, paying no mind to his prominent boner.

Mickey pointed at it. “Are we doin' that again this morning? I wouldn't have gotten dressed if I'd known.”

“No,” Ian grumbled. He closed himself in the bathroom and sat on the toilet with his head in his hands. Jesus, he was exhausted. Coffee. He needed a fucking vat of coffee.

He pissed and splashed some water on his face. When he glanced in the mirror he almost laughed at how haggard he looked. He figured it was still better than how he felt on the inside.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Mickey was leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed, wearing a concerned expression.

“The fuck's with you this mornin'?” he asked. “Were you drinkin' last night or somethin'?”

“What? No,” he replied in a slow monotone. He just wanted Mickey to leave him alone. He dug through his bag for clothes and pulled on a t-shirt and gym shorts.

He ambled to the coffee pot, brushed past Mickey, and poured himself a cup of the brew that his roommate had already made. There was a breakfast plate waiting for him there. Ian must have been completely zonked to have slept through Mickey doing all this.

He looked at the food Mickey had brought him. It was all the things he'd picked to eat yesterday morning, because of-fucking-course his roommate had taken notice. What would have given him butterflies yesterday just soured his stomach today. He left the plate there and sat on the sofa with his coffee.

Mickey, apparently unable to take a hint, dropped down beside him. He didn't talk but Ian could feel his eyes on him.

Eventually he asked, “You nervous about today?”

Ugh. As usual, Ian hadn't even been thinking about his start. So, yeah, _now_ he was nervous.

“I guess,” he muttered.

“I'm lookin' forward to seein' you in action, man.”

Ian looked at him dully and then looked away. _Just shut up, Mickey_.

The second baseman let him sip his coffee in peace for a minute. One minute. Then he elbowed him gently in the side. “Hey,” he said. “You want me to leave you alone? I can go.”

Ian sighed. Yes, that was exactly what he wanted. But when he opened his mouth to say it, he saw how Mickey was looking at him and he stopped. His blue eyes were so painfully earnest it nearly took Ian's breath away. He felt his defenses start to crumble. Mickey was trying to be his friend. Apart from whatever this fucked up attraction was between them it was obvious Mickey was sincere about that part. He softened under the brunet’s gaze. He could probably use a friend today. “No, it's fine. I'm fine,” he insisted. He wasn't, at all, but he'd find a way to be. “I'm just tired.”

“Wanna go get a fuckin' espresso or somethin' somewhere? After you eat?” Mickey got up and grabbed Ian's plate from the counter and set it on the coffee table in front of him. He sat back down.

“Yeah, sure,” Ian agreed. He reluctantly picked up a danish and took a bite. “I saw a Starbucks half way between here and the stadium. You wanna walk?” The ballpark was about a twenty-five minute hike from the hotel. He figured the exercise might energize him.

“Nah man, I went way too hard last night. My ass is sore as fuck. Let's just get a cab.”

Ian spat the contents of his mouth half way across the room. “What the fuck, Mickey?!”

Mickey's eyebrows shot up. “Jesus, what?!”

"You think I want to hear about Evans pounding you last night?!”

Mickey contorted his face in confusion and stared unblinking at him. A moment later his face relaxed and he grabbed a couch cushion and whacked Ian in the chest with it. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he griped.

“Ow!” Ian exclaimed. “What's wrong with me?!” He was flabbergasted.

“I wasn't talkin' about sex you fuckin' freak. We were working out.”

It was Ian's turn to look confused. “Huh? Why would you work out with Evans?”

“We used to work out together all the fuckin' time. He was my roommate in New Hampshire before he got traded.” New Hampshire was the Jay's Double-A affiliate. “We went to his gym and he showed me the new routine his trainer's got him on. It's fuckin' squat heavy.” He finished the last few words as he dissolved into laughter.

Ian watched him lose it and wasn't far behind. They leaned back into the couch, clutched their bellies and went off until they were dabbing at their eyes. As they regained control, Mickey turned his head against the cushions to look at Ian. He shoved his arm playfully. “Fuckin' dumbass,” he scolded.

“Fuck you,” Ian shot back. He jabbed the brunet in the side. When Mickey tried to retaliate but Ian grabbed his wrist. Mickey dove in with his other hand but Ian grabbed that one too and they wrestled against each others strength for a second. Mickey was fucking scrappy; he got an arm loose and, cackling like the cocky little shit he was, pinched at Ian's chest in the general vicinity of his nipple.

Ian managed to get a hold of his arm again and he used his body weight to pin the squirming man against the back of the sofa. “Give up,” he panted as he hovered over him. After one last useless surge, Mickey stopped struggling and looked up at him. Their smiles faltered as they realized the positions they'd gotten themselves into, but neither of them made an effort to move. Mickey looked at Ian's lips and then back into his eyes and Ian felt a whole other kind of adrenaline rush through his body. He let go of Mickey's left wrist and fisted the fabric of his sweatpants at the hip. Mickey's free hand landed on his bicep.

They both looked down at Ian's hand and then back at each other. Ian swallowed thickly. “We should probably get up,” he whispered, part of him hoping Mickey would think that idea fucking sucked. 

Mickey nodded. “Yup, let's get the fuck up,” he agreed.

Ian lifted off of him and blew out a long breath. Mickey stood up but gave him one last push on his way by before scooting out of reach with his tongue hanging out. The man knew how to ease tension. They went about the rest of the morning like nothing had happened. 

Ian was in an infinitely better mood, however. Not only had Mickey not slept with Evans, he was doing a kickass job at keeping his nerves at bay. Whenever Ian looked a little green, Mickey would say something encouraging or funny, or both.

He didn't remember his costume until they were about to walk out of the hotel room door. As he went back to pull it on, Mickey's eyes lit up. “You know what, on second thought, maybe we _should_ walk.”

Ian smiled for the umpteenth time that morning. “Yeah, I didn't think that through.”

“It's a shame the cab's already here,” Mickey joked. “Want me to run down and tell him to leave?”

Ian cocked his head in a comically unimpressed expression given the breadth of Goofy's smile. “Can we please go before he leaves and we really do have to walk.”

“If we do, you’re not fuckin’ walkin’ beside me.”

Ian laughed for the umpteenth time that morning and pushed Mickey out the door.

***

Back on the field, in the same spot and at the same time as the day before, there was no idle talk between the roommates. Yesterday, Mickey had chatted with him nearly the entire time. In retrospect, Ian suspected that Mickey had sensed it was what he had needed then. Today, he sought the quiet and the ritual. Mickey didn’t talk unless Ian spoke to him.

He didn’t even speak when Ian plucked his cigarette from his fingers and forgot to give it back. Although, he spoke volumes with his eyebrows and one had risen pretty high.

Ian, for the first time in his presence, was free of worry about Mickey. Free of thinking the man would find out he was gay, free of wondering if he was gay, free of obsessing over every little thing he did and trying to read or not read into it, free of wondering what the fuck he was thinking or who he was thinking about. Ian was sure there would be plenty of worries for another day but today, Mickey had made it abundantly clear that he gave a shit about what happened to him, and that mattered. 

When he looked at the grass, the mound, the dirt, the sky – he was finally experiencing it fully again, and none too soon. He just hoped he could pull a decent game out of his ass on too little sleep and not nearly enough prep. He’d done it before.

By the time they heard their teammates arrive in the clubhouse, Ian was ready to get to work.

“Wanna head back in?” Mickey asked. 

“Sure.” They turned to go but Ian stuck a hand out to stop him. “Don’t be disappointed if I’m not ogling you today,” he said in his most serious tone. “I need to keep my focus.” Look at him giving as good as he got.

Mickey scoffed. “I’ll believe it when I don’t fuckin’ see it.” He walked down the dugout steps and if the way Ian checked out his ass on the way was any indication, Mickey was most likely right.

Lucky for Ian, Coach Stanley gathered him up as soon as he’d changed into his practice gear and herded him and Fowler into a nearby room to talk strategy. Ian wasn’t thrilled that the foul tempered Fowler was catching for him instead of Butler, who’d apparently injured his thumb, but there was nothing to be done about it. He committed to making the best of a shitty situation.

“I’ve been watching lots of your video,” Stanley told Ian. “I’ve seen what you can do. Let’s go over the plan.”

That sounded like music to Ian’s ears. They talked for nearly two hours. Longer than a typical session of this sort, but one that Stanley could tell Ian would benefit from. By the time they’d finished, Ian felt like maybe he wouldn't completely blow it.

He had a little time before the game started and he gravitated back to Mickey who was massaging his legs and ass in the locker room.

“You ready?” he asked when Ian approached.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“You’re ready.”

Ian believed it when Mickey said it like that.

“Ass still hurting?” Ian queried.

“Coach made us do sprints,” he complained. “It’s not too bad.”

Ian plopped beside him and started stretching his shoulders while he watched, wishing he could help Mickey out with his massage.

“Fowler catchin’ for you?” 

“Yeah,” Ian sighed. The guy had a reputation for being difficult to work with.

Mickey shrugged. “Fuck him. Just do your thing.”

Ian gave him a tight smile. Shortly after, he left him and the rest of the team to start his warm up in the bullpen.

When he walked out onto the field this time, he walked into the same pregame energy that he’d experienced the previous day, but this time he knew he’d be front and center in it. That was what he loved about being a pitcher. It was also what made it so nerve wracking. He didn't get this far without being able to manage that feeling.

He crossed the field, Fowler barging ahead of him, and made his way into the bullpen.

As soon as he climbed the mound and got a ball in his hand, he felt his years of discipline and training take over. He threw pitch after pitch into Fowler’s glove and got into his rhythm. The time went too fast and the next thing he knew he was being summoned back to the dugout for the start of the game. 

The national anthem played and the opposing pitcher took the mound. Mickey wandered to the on deck circle and started practicing his swing. 

Then it was game on.

Ian got the same thrill watching Mickey strut to the batter's box as he had had in their previous game. Before he got into his stance, he said something to the ump; getting started early with the heckling perhaps. Ian hoped he didn't get the umpire in a bad mood. 

Mickey built up a count of 3-1 before he connected on a fastball that hopped to the shortstop. He was thrown out at first and the crowd cheered loudly.

The second baseman found him as soon as he returned to the dugout. 

“The ump seems to be callin' 'em good so far,” Mickey observed.

“Yeah.” Ian was distractedly scanning the crowd, a little intimidated by just how many PawSox fans he'd have to contend with.

Mickey correctly interpreted his unease. “Every one of those motherfuckers wants us to fuck up.” 

“Is that supposed to be helpful?” Ian asked.

“I dunno about you, but I kinda like pissin' ten thousand people off at once.” He grinned cheekily.

Ian laughed. That sounded great actually.

They watched the last batter of the inning get struck out then Mickey clapped Ian between the shoulder blades. “Let's go,” he said simply. Ian stuck his cap on and started towards the dugout steps. Their teammates offered their own encouragement as he passed; patting his shoulders, nudging him, tapping his ass.

Mickey and Ian jogged onto the field side by side. Mickey left him at the mound with one last encouraging look. He and the other infielders started tossing a ball between them and Fowler threw Ian one as well. He threw practice pitches until the umpire called for the first batter.

Ian watched as Fowler signaled between his legs. Fastball. Ian nodded and Fowler squared up. Ian let everything besides Fowler's mitt fade into the background as he took a deep breath. He wound up and fired a blistering shot down the inside corner of the plate. The batter sat on it and it was called a strike.

Ian heard Mickey whistle behind hi m and he bit his lip to keep from smiling like an idiot. He watched Fowler's signals again. Fastball. He nodded. He'd be using his heat a lot this evening. 

This time, the batter swung and missed. 

Fowler called for a curveball next. Sure. Ian nodded. The batter got the tip of his bat on it and it bounced to second. Mickey snatched it with skillful ease and flipped it to the first baseman. He winked at Ian on his walk back to position. Mickey being a part of his first out in the pros couldn't have made Ian happier than if he'd struck the batter out himself.

The inning moved along quickly after that. Quick for baseball anyhow, where time was measured against a snail's pace. 

Thankfully, the crowd was pretty reserved this early in the game. Ian was surprised to find them to be less of a factor than he expected. Two thousand or ten thousand, it all became the same when you were only staring at a glove. 

He struck out the next batter and the third hit a fly ball to shallow left. 

One inning out of the way.

In the dugout, his teammates all got up from the bench to give him high fives and Coach told him to keep it up. He would certainly try.

Mickey sat beside him. “I'm impressed,” he said, mirroring Ian's words from the day before.

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “That heater? I'm glad I don't have to bat against you.” 

Ian chuckled. "That would sound more sincere if you weren't saying the exact same thing that I said to you yesterday."

"Nah. You said you were glad you didn't have to _pitch_ against me. It'd make no fuckin' sense if I said that."

“I guess we're both lucky then," Ian said, laughing.

“Guess so,” Mickey agreed facing forward. 

They watched the bottom of the first with smiles on their faces. 

The innings went by so much more quickly when you were playing. Ian gave up a few hits here and there but he struck out a lot of batters as well. The Bison's got three runs in the top of the third but Ian got himself into a little trouble in the fourth and gave up two.

Fowler had shown his colors in that inning; signaling the same pitch over and over again even when Ian would shake it off. It was frustrating the fuck out of him and he signaled for the asshole to visit the mound. Ian told him that if he kept doing it he was going to aim his heater at 'his fucking nuts instead of his glove'; it would still hurt like a bitch, even through a cup. Fowler stopped.

Things got dicey in the sixth inning when the PawSox got two base hits with their first two at bats. The runners were at first and third and Ian was down by a count of 3-1 on the third batter. He was tired and his pitches were getting less accurate. It'd been awhile since he'd pitched and his conditioning had taken a hit; his lack of sleep wasn't helping the matter.

Coach Meacham asked for a timeout and the home plate umpire gave the signal for play to stop. _Fuck._ Ian didn't want a relief pitcher to come in yet. He was tired but he needed to show Coach that he could clean up his own messes rather than leave them for someone else. 

Fowler jogged to the mound as Coach Meacham approached them with long strides. Mickey appeared from behind him as well, biting his lip. They only had thirty seconds to converse.

“You good?” Meacham asked him.

“I’m good,” he assured him even though he wasn't sure himself.

“It’s your first start. You don’t have to be a hero,” Meacham continued.

Fowler piped up. “I think you should call a reliever, he’s all over the place.”

“Shut the fuck up, Fowler.” That was Mickey. No surprise there. “He says he’s good, he’s good.”

Coach looked at Ian for a moment then came to a decision. “K, the inning’s yours, Gallagher.” 

They all dispersed except Mickey. Ian gave him an agonized look. “I don't know if I can do this.”

“Ian, listen to me, you got me and seven other guys out here who are gonna back you up. It's not just you.” He gestured between them. “ _We_ got this.” He stared Ian in the eye and made sure he’d gotten the message.

He had. The sentiment was exactly what he needed to hear. Mickey tapped him on the ass with his gloved hand and retook his position.

Ian hadn’t missed the _Ian_ that Mickey had thrown his way either. Fuck that had sounded good. He vowed, there and then, to make the man say his name under different circumstances one day. He was pretty sure his life would go unfulfilled if he didn’t. 

He threw a fastball over the plate and the batter sent it deep into center. The outfielder caught it and the runner on third tagged up and scored to even it up. The fans went wild in the stands. The Bison's held the other runner at second though. Two down, one to go. If he got out of the inning with only one runner scoring, he'd be pretty content with that.

He gave it everything he had left in him, he knew he wouldn't be back for the seventh, and he struck out the last batter with three gorgeous fast balls. 

“You done?” Coach asked when he came into the dugout.

“Yup,” he replied. He was going out on his own terms at least. With the game tied when he left, he wouldn't get the win even if the Bison's ended up the victors but he also wouldn't get the loss if it didn't go their way.

“That's one under your belt, kid,” he said. “Good job.”

“Thanks Coach.” 

Melendez walked behind him and gave him a quick nuggie. He lost count of how many hands patted his ass. He would have liked the one in his win column but he couldn't complain about this. He went in search of ice for his shoulder. 

Mickey was batting and got on base so he didn't have his company for the seventh inning. He visited the ump before he trotted into the dugout for the top of the eighth.

He handed Ian a ball.

“What's this?” he asked.

“Your first pitch.”

“What?”

“I asked the ump to keep it for you when the game started.”

“You did?” Ian looked at him in wonder.

He shrugged. “It's your first out too. Same ball.”

Ian looked down at it in his hand. He hadn't even thought to keep it. He raised his head to thank Mickey but he'd already moved away. Ian watched his back as he weaved his way through the dugout. 

He acknowledged, in that moment, that his heart's response to Mickey was something he had exactly no control over.

***

They lost the game by a score of 4-3. The team was somber in the locker room but that's how it was after a loss. 

Ian saw Evans milling about in the hall by their locker room when he came out. Mickey had finished up awhile earlier and left. He hoped Evans wasn't waiting for him to return from somewhere. 

“Not going out?” he asked Mickey when he found him leaning against the building smoking and apparently waiting for the bus.

“Nope, I'm all yours,” he replied.

“Yeah? No ass pounding tonight?” Ian joked.

“I didn’t say that.” And there went those damn eyebrows again. Too bad the fucking flirt was all talk. Ian was definitely starting to figure Mickey out if his elevated, but not dangerously so, pulse was any indication.

Ian cocked his own eyebrow. “Fair warning, some day you’re going to say something like that and I’m going to take you seriously.”.

“Promise?” he said, biting his lip through his smile.

“Promise.” He guaran-fucking-teed it, in fact. He stole Mickey’s cigarette and finished it off on his way to the bus steps. He flicked it away as he listened to Mickey chuckling behind him.

***

When they arrived back in their room, Mickey came in long enough to drop his bag and then turned right back around. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said before leaving.

Ian took off the costume, shot off a text to tell his sister how his game had gone and sat on his bed to load Mad Men while he waited. He still hadn’t managed to get through the first episode. Their trip home was in a day and half.

Mickey knocked when he got back to the room and Ian got up to answer the door.

“You can stop with the knocking,” he complained when he opened it.

Mickey pretended to think for a second. “Nah, it hasn’t gotten old yet.”

“I disagree. What’s that?” 

Mickey was holding a six pack of beer and a bag of what appeared to be junk food. He walked inside and set it on the counter. Ian followed behind him.

“We’re celebrating.”

“I didn’t win.”

“No, but you didn’t lose either. And we’d be doin’ this even if you had. ‘Cause pitching in your first pro game deserves a fuckin’ celebration no matter what.”

Ian stared at him. Was he even real? Goddamn. Before Mickey had a chance to do anything about it, he took the step between them, wrapped his arms around him and hugged him tight. Mickey let out a little grunt of surprise but he didn’t resist.

“Thanks, Mickey,” Ian mumbled into his shoulder. Not just for this but for the whole day, he meant, but didn’t say, couldn’t say, for fear he’d end up blubbering into the man’s shirt.

“Hey, my fuckin’ pleasure,” Mickey said softly, his hand had found its way onto the back of Ian’s neck.

Ian could swear he felt Mickey’s heartbeat against his chest, thudding just as fiercely as his own. He didn’t want to let him go but he did. When they pulled apart, Mickey smiled and pressed a beer into his hand. 

“Watcha watchin'?” he asked, gesturing towards the tablet on Ian’s bed.

“I'm trying to get caught up on Mad Men.” Ian walked over and sat down.

“What episode you on?”

“The first.”

“Fuck, we're on the fourth season. It’ll take you forever.” He strolled towards Ian's bed. “Shove over,” he said. Ian moved so he was fully on the bed and Mickey climbed on beside him. They settled against the headboard and Mickey pointed at the screen. “That guy’s Draper. He works at an ad agency.” He motioned for Ian to pass him the tablet. He dragged his finger on the screen to scan forward through the episode. “K, this is the wife, and this...” he scanned some more, “is the side piece.” He continued on for awhile, giving the Coles notes of the show as Ian got lost in the timbre of his voice.

They spent the remainder of the night like that; drinking, snacking, and talking about things of little significance. It was easy and perfect and when Mickey eventually got off Ian’s bed to go to his own, Ian had never been more ready to let sleep overtake him in his life. 

***

They woke the next day with similar dispositions to the ones that had carried them through their Thursday. 

They teased and flirted their morning away. 

They mixed chatter with moments of near solitude on the field before their teammates arrival; Ian only stealing a quarter of Mickey’s cigarette this time. 

They had practice and a good game that they won. Ian managed another peek at Mickey in a jockstrap and it was just as good and erection inducing as he remembered; not that he’d had any doubt.

And then they were back at the hotel once again.

They were leaving early the next morning for Buffalo. Ian didn’t know how much of Mickey he’d see outside the ballpark when they got home. He assumed none at all and they would be in Buffalo for a week. So, he just wanted to relax into the evening and enjoy his roommate’s company.

But Melendez showed up at their door, looking to kill time. His roommate was in need of the room and he’d been kicked out. 

“You got nowhere else you can go?” Mickey asked when he opened the door. Melendez just laughed and pushed his way in; once again proving Ian’s theory that his teammates were immune to Mickey’s snark.

When Ian and Melendez decided to have an arm wrestling match and invited Mickey to play the winner, Mickey said, “Fuck no. I actually plan on usin’ my throwin’ arm tomorrow,” and looked meaningfully at Melendez. The third baseman had nearly busted a gut. 

Maybe men just loved Mickey, whether they were gay or not. Ian could believe it.

Once Melendez left, Mickey looked at Ian seriously and said, “It doesn’t suck that I got stuck with you.”

After the ribbing he’d heard Melendez endure all night, Ian was pretty sure that counted as rare praise from Mickey. He beamed at the brunet. 

Mickey scowled at him. “Alright, tone it down before you trip over somethin’.”

Ian walked towards him, surefooted. “It doesn’t suck that I got stuck with you either, Mick,” he said when he got close; a massive understatement but true nonetheless.

He studied Mickey quietly until Mickey scratched at the back of his neck and looked at the floor. “Wanna watch a show or some shit?” Mickey asked.

“Yeah, let's do it,” Ian replied.

***

They dragged their asses out of bed at 5:15AM to make their 6AM departure time. Ian got to enjoy an adorably sleepy and rumpled Mickey grumbling about how fucking early it was. He wouldn't take coffee, saying he was going back to sleep on the bus. Ian pulled on his Goofy costume for the last time and they made their way downstairs. When they boarded, Mickey headed for the back again, promptly pushed a pillow against the window and curled into it.

Ian took the same seats as last time as well, with Melendez in the row in front of him and Bowser a row behind and across the aisle. Most of the team was trying to do exactly what Mickey had, but Ian doubted he'd have any luck falling asleep himself. He stared out the window and reflected on the road trip instead. He'd felt completely different sitting in that seat on the way to Pawtucket than he did now on the way back. None of it had gone at all like he'd hoped or feared. It had been something else entirely. Something better.

When most of the team had woken up they turned Mad Men on the overhead TVs. Mickey slid into the seat next to him and made himself comfortable. Melendez saw him and gave him a surprised look to which Mickey responded with his finger.

He leaned his head on the seat back and looked at Ian. “Hey,” he said. “Figured I might as well sit here in case you can't make sense of the show.”

“Yeah, that'd be great.” 

Mickey helped him put his earbuds in. They fell out half a dozen times before they finally stuck. Anytime Ian had a question he'd nudge Mickey's leg, Mickey would pull one out, answer, then the whole fiasco would start again.

By the time lunch came around and the subs were distributed, Mickey had had enough. He looked at Ian's gloves and rolled his eyes.

“Hey asshole,” he called in Bowser's direction across the aisle. When the outfielder looked up, Mickey cranked open the window, tugged Ian's gloves off him and tossed them out. They whizzed by in a puff of white and landed in the ditch on the side of the road. 

“Mickey, that's a rental!” Bowser whined.

“Not my fuckin' problem,” he said. He closed the window, handed Ian a sub and sat back down.

He didn't move for the rest of the trip, even after the show had long been turned off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **BASEBALL TERMS IN THIS CHAPTER:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **Count** \- Refers to the number of balls and strikes a batter has in his current plate appearance. The balls are displayed first. So a count of 3-2 would be 3 balls, 2 strikes.


	6. Chapter 6

The Bisons’ locker room was beginning to thin out as players trickled into the hall. They’d just played an afternoon game against the LeHigh Valley IronPigs and Mickey was taking his time packing up to leave. Afternoon games attracted a disproportionate number of families with children, many of whom would stay afterward and wait at the player’s entrance in an attempt to get an autograph. The slower he was, the fewer fans that would still be there by the time he got outside.

“Mickey,” Melendez called as he crossed the room to Mickey’s locker, “a few of us are going out tonight, you want in?”

“Fuck no.” He had no choice but to spend most of his waking hours with his teammates, he wasn’t dumb enough to do it voluntarily. He was looking forward to a rare evening of doing fuck all.

“Your new best friend is coming.”

His hands hesitated over his bag before he continued to move things around inside. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” He knew exactly what he was talking about. It didn’t change anything, he wasn’t going.

“Gallagher,” Melendez clarified. 

“Gallagher what?” Ian asked as he sidled up behind Melendez. Mickey looked up for the first time since Melendez had approached him. 

“I was telling Mickey you’re coming out with us tonight. Thought he might want to come for once.” 

Ian crossed his arms and leaned back against the wood of the locker nearest to Mickey’s. “You should.”

“Not my thing.” Mickey went back to packing up his belongings so he didn’t have to witness Ian’s pout.

“Good luck,” Melendez said to Ian. He rolled his eyes and walked back to his locker.

“You sure you wanna go out with those assholes?” Mickey asked as soon as he was out of earshot. He knew his teammates went out for two reasons and two reasons only: to get drunk and to get girls.

Ian shrugged. “Might be fun.”

Mickey scoffed. “I seriously doubt it.” Against his better judgement, he asked, “Where you goin’?”

“Some place called The Fax.”

“Bare Fax?” His eyebrows shot up. “You know that’s a strip joint, right?”

Ian’s eyes bulged. “Shit. No.”

Mickey shouldered his bag and started to head out; Ian lifted off the locker and trailed behind him. “You should hear the fucked up stories the guys tell about that place,” Mickey warned him. From what he’d heard, Bison’s players that ventured in there were treated like VIPs. The rules imposed on other guests didn’t apply. “Get out of it,” he suggested.

“I can’t! How’s that going to look?”

“Like you changed your mind.”

“They’re making it a rookie thing. I’m supposed to pay for their drinks.”

“Even more reason to get out of it.” Mickey pushed open the locker room door and walked into the hall.

“Mickey, I-“

Ian was cut off when a reporter fast walked her way in front of them, bringing the men to a halt. A cameraman scuttled up beside her. “Hi, Mickey, I was wondering if I could get a few words with you?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

“You must be new,” he said, instead of answering her question. He made to move around her. Mickey was rarely asked to do interviews anymore. The reporters had long since learned that he wouldn't filter his language for their benefit - and that was if they were fortunate enough to get anything besides one word answers out of him in the first place.

“I am,” she replied as she trotted to keep up with him. “It’ll only take a minute of your time.” 

He stopped with a huff. “You got one minute.” Only because it’d delay him having to sign autographs a little longer. Everyone wanted something from him today it seemed.

“You’ve just suffered two straight loses to the IronPigs. What can the team do differently tomorrow to get the win?” They’d lost their first game back from Pawtucket yesterday and then this one today; both by narrow margins. She stuck a microphone in his face. 

“Get more runs,” he replied disinterestedly. 

She tittered nervously. “Yes, right. Um, but how is the team planning on going about doing that?”

“By getting more hits.” Jesus, he’d forgotten how annoying and repetitive this shit was. He changed his mind; signing autographs was better than answering stupid fucking questions. “We done?”

The reporter peeked at Ian, open-mouthed, and found nothing but an amused expression. She looked back at Mickey. “Um, sure, okay.” She turned fully towards the redhead. “Could I have a few words with you instead?”

Ian looked startled. “Uh, I guess so.” he responded slowly. The reporter immediately started in on him with the same questions she’d asked Mickey. Ian stammered out an unscripted reply while shooting panicked glances Mickey’s way. He was too damn nice for his own good. 

“Okay, we have shit to do,” Mickey barked at the reporter before she could ask anything else; because, of course he couldn’t mind his own business where Ian was concerned. That’s how he already knew that if Ian was going to a fucking strip club tonight, he’d end up there as well. Picturing what could happen to him at a place like that, in the company of his dickhead teammates, made him sick. 

He put a hand on Ian’s shoulder blade to steer him away. They were only a few yards from the exit. “You sign autographs in Seattle?” he asked.

“No, not really. Why?”

He opened the door to reveal a throng of excited fans. “That’s why,” Mickey said with a grin. 

At the front of the small crowd, a boy wearing a Bison’s jersey with Mickey’s number on it was staring at him like the sun shone out of his ass. It reminded him of Ian in those first couple days after he’d joined the team and he smiled.

Mickey approached him and ignored the mom eyeing his knuckle tats disapprovingly. He was used to it. The kid looked too young to be able to read anyway. He crouched down beside him. “Hey, I’m Mickey, what’s your name?”

“T-t-tyler,” the kid stuttered.

“Tyler, you got somethin’ you want me to sign?”

The boy gave a tiny nod but he didn’t try to hand anything over; too awestruck by Mickey’s presence to move. The kid had his arm behind his back and Mickey figured whatever it was must be there. He looked up at the mom for help. She rested her hand on the boy’s head. “Give him the ball sweetie,” she encouraged. Tyler bit his lip and shakily held out a ball for Mickey to take. Mickey scrawled his autograph across the clean white leather, taking the time to do a decent job of it instead of the rushed one he often did. 

When he handed it back the boy lunged at him and wrapped his tiny arms around his neck. It was sort of cute so he patted Tyler’s back until the kid finally let go. He didn’t mind the little fans so much; they were much better than the bigger brattier ones, who themselves were still preferable to the women who wanted him to sign their bras.

When he stood up Ian was looking at him like he wanted to hug him himself. It made his heart skip. Jesus.

He refocused his attention on the crowd. The majority of the ones that were still there had been waiting for him. Most of them didn’t recognize Ian so Mickey kept cocking a thumb at him and saying ‘new pitcher’ every once in awhile until they were asking for his autograph too. They signed balls, cards, hats, jerseys and ticket stubs, but thankfully no bras, for a half an hour before the last giddy fan turned away. 

“That was kinda surreal,” Ian commented, flexing his fingers to dispel the cramp that he’d worked up. 

“Yeah, it’s fuckin’ nuts when you think about it.” Kids wearing his jersey, signing his own baseball card, ruining peoples perfectly good hats with his signature - none of it made any fucking sense sometimes. He’d gotten used to it in a way but that didn’t make it seem normal.

“You have a lot of fans,” Ian observed. 

He grunted assent. It was true. The crowd always cheered loudest when Mickey went up to bat, there were always more jerseys with his number than anyone else’s and he always had the most fans demanding autographs. He’d become a bit of a local celebrity and he hated everything about it: having to talk to random people wherever he went, shake hands, be civil whether he wanted to or not. It was irritating as fuck, not to mention it made it a lot more difficult for him to fly under the radar as a gay man who liked sex but not commitment. 

“Yeah, it’s great,” he said dryly. “So, you goin’ to that peeler bar, or what?” 

Ian sighed. “I can’t back out of it now.” 

“Why the fuck not?”

“It’d just be weird. Besides, I want to hang out with the guys. I’ve never been to a strip club, maybe I’ll like it.” He laughed.

Mickey shook his head. For fuck’s sake. “What’s your cell number?” he asked, pulling his own cell out of his pocket.

“You want my cell number? Is it for sexting?” Ian teased.

“Yes,” he deadpanned. Ian gave it to him and Mickey fired off a text that was nothing but the peach emoji just to make him laugh; his new hobby apparently. “Text me when you’re leaving for the club.”

“Wait, you’re gonna go?” Ian beamed.

“If I don’t come to my fuckin’ senses in the meantime,” he replied as he turned to leave. Their apartments were in opposite directions and he could feel Ian’s adoring eyes on him until he was out of sight. That sort of shit was the exact reason his senses had been nowhere to be found for days.

***

That was how Mickey ended up in the last place he’d rather be on a Saturday night with Ian looking sexy as fuck to his left, a bunch of assholes to his right, and a pair of nasty plastic tits in front of him. They were way too fucking close to the stage for his taste, not that there was a seat in the place that was far enough away. He nursed his beer and considered ordering something a lot stronger.

He glanced at Ian. If he was trying to look straight, he was doing a shit job of it. He was learning forward, squinting at the girl like he’d never seen a naked woman in the flesh before. Then again, maybe he hadn’t. Every time she’d contort into some new position his eyes would widen for a moment and then narrow again. 

In contrast, the idiots to his right, Melendez, Butler, Peralta and their right fielder, Williams, were animated; whistling, shouting, clapping each other on the back and waving dollar bills at the talent. Mickey was glad he’d positioned himself between them and Ian. 

“Yo,” he said to the redhead. “You’re gonna give that girl a fuckin’ complex.”

Ian looked at him distractedly. “She is really, really flexible.”

Mickey scoffed. “Please, she’s got nothin’ on an infielder.”

The corner of Ian’s mouth curled up and he got a provocative glint in his eyes. He didn’t look distracted anymore. 

Their teammates whooped and Mickey and Ian looked back at the stage. The stripper was even closer than before and she’d procured a red lollipop - the kind that had a round ball of candy on the end of the stick. She was sucking on it seductively then rubbing it down her chest and over her nipples before bringing it back to her mouth again. She sat on the edge of the stage only a few feet from them, spread her legs, and trailed the lollipop down her stomach to her crotch; rubbing it all over her clit and labia. As her final act, she slipped it inside her hole and fucked herself with it, moaning like a porn star. 

It was revolting. “Jesus,” Mickey griped and looked away. He couldn’t keep himself from cringing. 

Ian was staring, unblinking, at the spectacle while their teammates exclaimed about how hot it was. They were no doubt getting hard-ons while Mickey’s dick threatened to retract into his bladder permanently. He honestly couldn’t fathom how he’d ever managed to fuck around with women.

She jumped off the stage and approached them; approached Mickey specifically.

He leaned back as far as he could in his chair when she tried to climb onto him with that infested lollipop still in her hand. “No, thanks!” he snapped. He’d have pushed her off but he didn’t know where to touch. She shrugged and made eyes at Ian.

“What, she not hot enough for you?” Butler asked disbelievingly beside him.

“Not my type,” he grunted.

“If that’s not your type, what the fuck is?”

“I like redheads.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ian’s head whip in his direction but then the stripper began to climb onto his lap and she used a finger to turn his face toward her. She rolled her hips and lifted one of his hands to her bare breast. Ian was stiff as a board, not refusing her advances but obviously wanting her to be anywhere but there. She made it infinitely worse by gripping his jaw, tugging it down to pop his mouth open and sticking the lollipop inside, snapping his jaw shut around it.

Mickey recoiled in horror. The dickheads cheered. Ian pulled his hand off the stripper’s breast to grapple with her for control of his jaw and the lollipop stick. She got the hint and backed off of him so he could extract it. When he’d finally pulled it out and pushed it back into her hand he got up, gagging, and bee-lined for the bathroom.

Mickey watched him go then counted to fifteen before getting up to follow him. He found him spitting red phlegm into the bathroom sink.

“That was fucking disgusting!” Mickey exclaimed when he entered. “Why’d you let her do that shit?!”

“Did I look like I wanted her to do that?!” he spluttered between loogies. “Fuck! Why would _anyone_ want that in their fucking mouth?!”

“I’m sure the guys would feel the same way about having a dick in theirs,” Mickey reasoned.

“God, I’d give anything to have a dick in my mouth right now!” He stopped and looked at Mickey then down at his groin.

“Ha, not a fuckin’ chance! Your mouth has never been less appealing.”

Ian groaned. “I’m gonna go get a shot of vodka. No, a fucking glass of vodka.”

He sped past Mickey and didn’t stop until he got to the bar. He slapped his hand repeatedly on the hardwood until the bartender came over. “Vodka! A lot of it. In a glass,” he ordered. 

“Just vodka?” the bemused bartender attempted to clarify.

“Yes!” Ian hissed. “Now!”

The bartender shrugged and went to ready his drink while Mickey slid into the barstool beside him and started laughing. Ian stared daggers at him until his drink was placed in front of him. It looked to be about three shots worth and he emptied it into his mouth without hesitation. He flinched at the taste but swished it around before swallowing it down. 

“Can I suck your dick now?” he asked seriously when he’d smashed the empty glass back on the bar.

“Still no,” Mickey refused. It was slightly more tempting though.

Butler leaned his head between them and wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders. “Hey, come on, we’re heading to the champagne room for some VIP treatment,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

“We’re goin’ for a smoke,” Mickey told him.

“Here, smoke this. Maybe it’ll loosen you two the fuck up.” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a thick blunt and shoved it into the pocket at the front of Mickey’s white v-neck. “ When you get back, it’s just up those stairs,” he said, nodding towards the back of the club. “Believe me, you won’t want to miss it so hurry up.” He left them and he and the rest of their teammates took off up the stairs trailing behind three scantily clad ladies.

When Mickey and Ian emerged onto the sidewalk out front, they moved to the side to avoid the flow of people coming and going from the various clubs in the area. Mickey tugged his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and plucked one out.

“Shit, shouldn’t we get stamped so we can get back in?” Ian asked, realizing they’d have to pay cover again if they didn’t.

“Not goin’ back,” Mickey stated. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and cupped his hands around it in an attempt to get it to light.

Ian gave him a puzzled look. “We’re ditching them?”

“What, you haven’t had enough to eat? You wanna go see what’s on the menu in the fuckin’ champagne room?”

Ian shivered. “No, but aren’t you worried about what they’ll think if we just leave?”

“Fuck no.” Mickey spat. “Listen, I know better than to come out to those morons, but I ain’t gonna pretend to like that shit either. I spent enough years doin’ that.”

“But, eventually, they’ll start to wonder…,” Ian argued, trailing off.

“So? Who gives a fuck what they think they know? You’re South Side, Gallagher. You got thick skin just like I do. A rumor's gonna do you in? Unless you get caught with some guy’s dick in your mouth, it doesn’t mean shit.” He sighed when Ian still looked unsure. “They’re plastered and they’ve got girls jerkin’ them right now. You really think they’re worrying about where we are?”

“You have a point,” Ian conceded.

“You wanna go smoke this somewhere?” he asked, tapping the blunt in his shirt. Getting high with Ian was likely a worse idea than indulging in the VIP treatment at Bare Fax but he’d definitely enjoy it a heck of a lot more.

Ian’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, that sounds great actually. Where do you want to go?”

“Wherever.” 

“The ballpark?”

“It’s been closed for hours.” 

“I know. I can find a way in.” 

Mickey was impressed. Ian had balls. “Lead the way.”

Ian nodded then turned down the street only to spin and face the other direction. “I actually have no idea which way it is from here,” he admitted.

Mickey smiled at him. How could he not like this guy? “This way.” He pointed towards the dark outline of the ballpark in the distance and they started walking.

Ian stole Mickey's cigarette within a few steps, took a long drag and then carefully placed it back between the brunet's lips. Mickey cocked an eyebrow at him. “You can have one, you know.” 

“I don't smoke, remember?” Ian tsked.

Mickey chuckled. “Right, for some reason I keep forgetting that.” After a few puffs he offered the cigarette back to the redhead who accepted it readily. They quietly passed it back and forth as they strolled. Ian seemed unusually reserved, like maybe he was still mulling over what they'd been talking about before.

“Anybody on the team ever say anything about you maybe being gay?” he finally asked.

“Maybe. Nothing that ever got back to me though.” He tossed the spent cigarette into a nearby trashcan and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“They're probably too terrified of you,” Ian surmised. “But what would you do if someone did?”

Mickey shrugged. “Ask them if they'd like to suck my dick?”

Ian barked out a surprised laugh, “Yeah, that's exactly what you'd do,” he affirmed.

Mickey bit his lip and peered over at Ian, wondering how much of what he was thinking he could say. Ian was South Side though, so he figured he'd understand. “My dad tried to kill me when he found out I was gay. He's been locked up ever since. After that all went down, there's nothin' anyone can say that could bother me.”

“Jesus, Mick,” Ian muttered, shaking his head. Mickey was grateful when he didn't press for details. “I could see how that would change your perspective. But why not just come out then?” he asked.

“It's the distraction I don't want,” he explained. “The fuckin' media circus and all the bullshit that would go on in the clubhouse with the guys. Seems like a good way to lose focus.” He looked at Ian, “Why don’t you?”

“I think about that too,” Ian replied. “But, you're the only other guy I know in baseball that's gay. I’ve always felt kind of alone. I think it'd be even worse if they knew.”

Mickey squinted at him like he had two heads. “Is your gaydar that fucked? There are so many fags playin’ ball.”

“What? You’re sure?”

“Banged a few of 'em, so yeah, pretty fuckin' sure.”

“You have?!” Ian skidded to a halt and stuck out his arm to stop Mickey as well. He turned scandalized eyes on the brunet. “Who?” he whispered.

“You really think I'm gonna tell you that?” He gently pushed Ian to the side so they could continue towards the ballpark.

“Anyone on our team?”

“Fuck no,” Mickey scoffed. 

“Wait, is anybody else on our team gay?”

He nodded slowly and Ian's eyes went wide. “It's shocking that you can't pick up on this shit. How do you get laid?” Mickey wondered.

“Tell me who right now.”

“Fowler.”

“My roommate?!”

“Big ‘ol ‘mo,” he confirmed.

“Shiiiiiit,” Ian breathed, running his hand through his hair. “I’d feel some sort of kinship with him if he wasn’t such a prick.”

“I cannot stand that guy.”

“Try living with him.”

“No thanks,” Mickey huffed. 

Ian was quiet for a moment as he absorbed all the recent revelations. “You live alone?” he asked eventually.

“No, I room with Axford.”

“No kidding. How’s that?”

“He’s got a wife and kid in Florida so he’s not bugging me to hit up clubs with him all the time. He’s quiet. Clean. Not a douche. Helps with the bills.” He shrugged. “It works.”

“Yeah, but with him there you can’t bring guys back to your place.”

“Why the fuck would I want guys near my place? So they can stalk me after I tell them to piss off?”

Ian cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s how it is, is it? You always leave them wanting more?”

“Pretty much.”

“I bet,” Ian mumbled.

It wasn’t long before they were approaching the perimeter of the ballpark. Ian led them to the outfield side where he knew the walls were lowest. Unfortunately, this was the side that bordered the street rather than the parking lot.

“You think we’d get in trouble if we get caught?” Ian considered. “The team wouldn’t press charges against us, right?”

“They won’t say shit. Let’s do it.” Mickey looked up at the wall. It was maybe nine feet high, covered in adverts and didn’t look to have any handholds. There was chain-link above one portion of it. They’d be lucky if they didn’t break their necks. Especially Ian. “How we doin’ this?”

“If I take a running jump, I think I can reach the chain-link and then I can pull you up.”

Mickey gestured for him to fill his boots.

Ian backed up onto the road and then ran for the wall. He got one foot on it and used that to propel himself high enough to grip the fence above with both hands. He struggled to pull himself up the rest of the way when he couldn’t get any more leverage with his foot on the slippery advert banners. “Help me out!” he called.

Mickey took a moment to admire his teammate's ass than placed a hand on each cheek and pushed until the redhead could scramble up to the top. Ian turned back and reached down for Mickey. “Come on,” he encouraged.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed. He leapt up and grabbed both of Ian’s hands, letting him pull while he walked up the side of the wall. Fucker was strong, he’d give him that. They sat on the top for a moment and caught their breaths. Ian was the first to hang over the other side and drop down to the concrete below. 

Mickey could barely make out Ian’s form but it looked as though he hadn’t moved from where he landed. “Back up or you’ll end up with my feet in your face."

“I’m gonna catch you.”

“Like fuck you are!”

“I don’t want you to get hurt!”

“If you made it, I will. Just back the fuck up.”

Ian moved a step away so Mickey could drop down beside him with a grunt; he stumbled into the wall a little and Ian held his hands out to steady him. Mickey spun in his arms, his back pressed against the wall and looked up at him in the dim light. “I’m good,” he assured him softly. 

“Okay,” Ian replied in the same tone. He took his hands off Mickey and turned to face the field. 

The ballpark looked so different like this with no stadium lights to push back the dark of night. The moon hung low and heavy in the cloudless sky, casting the field in a delicate glow. It was enough to guide their way and keep them from tripping over anything, their slow movements the only thing to disturb the still air around them. The park was eerily calm, like the bustle of Buffalo nightlife surrounding it didn’t exist, an oasis in the middle of the city. It even smelt different at night; fresher, cleaner, without the heat of the sun searing the grass below.

The men found their way to the stands opposite the infield where they climbed down the stairs between the sections, stopping a half a dozen rows from the bottom. They sat side-by-side at the end of the aisle and Mickey handed the blunt to Ian while he dug in his pocket for a lighter. Ian popped it between his lips and Mickey struck a flame, leaning forward to let it lick against the end of the blunt until it caught. The redhead inhaled deeply and promptly choked on the smoke, doubling over in a loud coughing fit. Mickey whacked him on the back a few times while he laughed.

“Jesus,” Ian gasped between coughs. “That fucking burns.”

“It’s the tobacco leaves,” Mickey explained. “You gotta start slow.” He plucked the blunt from Ian’s fingers and took a small puff. He held the smoke for a moment, savoring the flavour, and then let it slowly curl out of the side of his mouth, clearing his throat a little at the irritation it caused in his esophagus. “That's not half bad,” he praised. He handed it back to Ian, whose hacking had finally subsided, and the redhead took a more cautious drag. When he didn’t collapse in a fit of coughs he took a longer one.

They settled back in their seats and leisurely passed the blunt between them, listening to the crickets all but drown out the distant sound of cars passing on the thruway. “There’s something about an empty ballfield at night,” Ian said quietly after awhile.

“Man, I spent so many nights just like this at the ballfield in Armour Square,” Mickey reflected.

“Smokin’ weed?”

“Yeah, or shotgunnin’ beer, or fuckin’ dudes or… I don’t know… just thinkin’ about what I needed to do to get the fuck out of the South Side.”

Ian glanced at him. “You really hated it?”

“There wasn’t much to like.”

“Weird to think I was doing pretty much the same thing over at the field in Canaryville,” Ian mused. “Except the fuckin' dudes part.” He looked at Mickey and grinned. “Wish I'd known I could've just gone to Armour Square.”

Mickey smiled around the blunt in his mouth. “Shame,” he said, and meant it. “Where’s your place in Canaryville?”

“On South Wallace,” Ian replied.

“No shit. We were on Zemansky before we moved.”

“Fuck, that’s like three streets over. We came this close to knowing each other back then,” he said, holding up his fingers a short distance apart. He grinned at the brunet. “I bet I would have liked you.”

Mickey shook his head before taking another long drag and holding the blunt out for Ian. “I doubt it, man, I was a real piece of work.”

“Who wasn't?” Ian replied, shrugging and taking his own drag. There wasn’t much of the blunt left. “One look at that ass and I'd have chased it all around the South Side.”

“And I would've acted like I didn't want you to.”

“I'd have seen right through it and worn you down.”

Mickey chuckled. “Well, it's for the best then. We'd have been too busy bangin' to think about baseball. Never would have gotten out of there.”

“Yeah, you're probably right.”

“Usually am,” he said, retrieving the blunt. He inhaled and leaned his head back to blow the smoke towards the stars. He could feel the weed starting to dull his senses. “You always been an ass man?” he asked.

“If I wasn't already, I would have been after seeing you in a jock strap,” Ian responded smoothly, the marijuana beginning to have a similar effect on him. He smirked at Mickey and Mickey barked a smoked filled laugh into the sky. “What does it for you, Mick?” he questioned boldly.

Mickey lowered his head to rake dark eyes over the redhead then tilted his head back up. “Fuckin’ red hair, apparently,” he huffed. He didn’t need to look at Ian to know he had a broad grin plastered across his face. He felt fingers brush against his as Ian reached over and snatched the remainder of the blunt from him. Ian managed to get one last puff out of it before he flicked it to the concrete and rubbed it out with the sole of his shoe. 

“Mick,” Ian said a moment later, so softly that Mickey thought he might be imagining it.

Mickey froze when he looked down and saw that Ian was a lot closer than he had been a few seconds before and was moving closer still. His hazy mind was clumsily processing what to do if the redhead tried to kiss him when Ian suddenly gripped his shoulder with one hand and his thigh with the othe, effectively silencing any lucid thoughts that the he had left. His eyes landed on Ian’s mouth and didn’t budge. Wouldn’t budge. In that moment, he couldn’t remember why having those lips on his had ever seemed like a bad idea.

Ian’s face was only a few inches away from his own when the redhead whispered dramatically, “I think the weed is making me see shit.”

“Huh?” Mickey tore his eyes from the redhead’s lips and realized that Ian was staring wide-eyed at the rows of seats over his shoulder.

“ _Look_ ,” he hissed, nodding past Mickey.

Mickey twisted in his seat and searched the rows until his eyes caught movement. A small calico cat trotted down the stairs towards the field. “I see it,” he breathed.

“What do you see?”

“A cat.”

Ian blew out a long sigh of relief. “Jesus, I thought I was hallucinating. Fuck, I feel weird though. It’s really hitting me.”

“Me too,” Mickey muttered. He was regretting that they’d smoked the whole thing. Ian had had all that vodka as well.

Ian rested his forehead beside his hand on Mickey’s shoulder and groaned. Mickey barely registered the redhead’s proximity any longer, his thoughts were too disjointed. He felt like he was hovering. He closed his eyes and tried to relax into the intense high. He had no idea how long they sat like that, but when his eyes finally blinked open, he felt a little more grounded. His senses slowly returned to him and he became aware of the weight on his shoulder and thigh and of the man curled into him. “Yo, Gallagher?” he queried softly.

“Yeah?” the redhead croaked.

“You okay?”

“Fuuuuck,” he moaned, but didn’t move.

Mickey smoothed a hand over the back of his head. “Seriously, you okay?” he asked again. He was definitely stoned but the high had shifted into a more pleasant one. He hoped Ian had come out on the other side as well.

Ian sighed and burrowed his face deeper into the fabric of Mickey’s shirt. “God, you smell good. Of fucking course you would,” he mumbled, tightening his grip on the brunet’s thigh. Mickey unconsciously nosed at the hair above Ian’s ear.

“You smell good too,” he whispered.

Ian lifted his head to gaze at him, bringing their mouths so close they were breathing the same air, his pupils blown so wide that Mickey could barely see any iris in them as they drifted to his lips. His pulse, already racing from the THC flowing in his veins, quickened even further. It would have been effortless to close the gap between them but Mickey fought the impulse. He found himself wishing he was still high enough to have an excuse to let it happen.

“Wanna go down on the field?” he asked uncertainly.

Ian shook his head slightly. “I like it here,” he breathed.

“Yeah, me too,” Mickey admitted. Too much. “Let’s go down on the field,” he said louder, more sure. He dropped his hand from Ian’s hair and the spell was abruptly broken. Ian’s eyelids fluttered and he lifted away from his teammate.

He straightened up in his seat and tugged at his hair with both hands. “Shit, that was fucked,”

“We got wrecked, man. Think you can make it down there?” Mickey asked, gesturing to the steps that lead to the wall surrounding the infield.

“Uh, let’s try,” Ian suggested. He rose from his seat and Mickey followed. They laughed as they staggered to the wall. Mickey clumsily climbed over first and held out his arms on the warning track to keep Ian from face planting; the guy could barely stay on his feet when he wasn’t stoned. Ian crawled over the wall with great care and landed in a pile on the other side, despite Mickey’s assistance. They got to their feet, still laughing and managed to cross the infield with increasingly sturdy steps.

“Pitch to me,” Mickey requested when they reached first base.

“Pitch what to you?”

“Pretend.”

Ian smiled goofily. “Okay,” he said. He climbed the mound and Mickey trotted to the batter’s box. They got into their stances; Mickey wielding an invisible bat and Ian clutching a nonexistent ball.

Ian wound up and threw the ball at the plate. Mickey watched it sail by.

“That was way outside,” he called.

Ian laughed. “Like hell it was!”

“Please, that pitch wasn’t even in this time zone. Throw me a strike, I dare ya!” Mickey taunted.

“Keep talking and I’ll throw it at your head,” Ian threatened. They both readied themselves.

Ian pitched and Mickey took a big swing. He lifted his head as though he were watching the ball sail deep into the night sky. A few seconds later, he flipped the bat and raised his arm in triumph. Ian played along, kicking at the dirt and turning to watch the imaginary ball leave the park. Mickey started his celebratory jog around the bases, whooping at his accomplishment.

“Goddamnit!” Ian swore and pretended to throw his glove on the ground. Mickey chuckled lightheartedly as he circled the bases, adding a jump onto home base at the end for effect. Ian shook his head in mock annoyance and Mickey laughed harder. “Okay,” Ian said, “my turn! It’s the bottom of the ninth, two outs and I’ve got a no-hitter going.”

“K, show me what you got, Gallagher,” Mickey teased. They returned to their positions. Ian whipped the ball at the plate and Mickey watched it whiz by.

“Strike one!” Ian yelled.

“Fuck you!” Mickey yelled back.

He pitched again. This time Mickey swung and then stepped back from the plate with a huff.

“Strike two! Keep swinging, that breeze is awesome!” Ian called.

Mickey waved him off. “Simmer down you cocky fuck!”

The last pitch was another strike down the centre of the plate that Mickey swung at and missed. Ian leapt into the air and howled at the moon while Mickey broke the invisible bat over his knee and threw the pieces toward the dugout. The pitcher raised his fists heavenward and rejoiced with a double fist pump. He collapsed into the grass beside the mound and lay on his back with his limbs sprawled.

Mickey’s amused face appeared above him. “You’re gonna celebrate a no-hitter with a fuckin’ nap?”

“I pitched for nine innings, I’m tired,” Ian complained.

Mickey grinned and dropped heavily beside him, resting his head on one of Ian’s outstretched biceps and crossing his arms. They stared at the endless expanse of stars above them, content to be silent with their thoughts for a moment. Mickey turned to look at his teammate when he noticed the redhead was watching his profile. “The fuck you lookin’ at?” he asked without menace.

The redhead smiled and looked back up at the sky. “Tonight was fun,” he confessed. “I’m glad we left the club.”

“Nothin’ like a little trespassin’ and weed. Been too long since I’ve done either.”

“That and the company isn’t so bad.”

“That too,” Mickey agreed. The company was great, in fact, he could hardly admit it to himself just how great. 

“Do you ever think about how much more fun baseball was back in the day? When we were scrappin’ it out on those shitty fields in the South Side?” Ian reflected.

“It’s like anything you try to make a career out of. Even if you love it, it’s still work. I saw this YouTube video once, an interview with these porn stars. They were goin’ on like blowin’ their load on some coed was a fuckin’ chore.”

Ian snorted. “I’m sure it’s fun for them sometimes though.” 

“Sure and ball is too, isn’t it? Especially when you’re winning.”

“Pitching is fucking stressful, not like when I was a kid.”

“You gotta get outta your own head, man. When was the last time you played ball outside of this kinda place?” Mickey inquried, gesturing in a wide circle at the professional field that cradled them.

“It’s been years. Since before college,” Ian admitted.

“That’s your problem right there.”

“Ya think?”

“I know,” Mickey replied decisively.

“And you’re usually right.” Ian grinned at him.

“Bingo.”

“What would you have wanted to do if you couldn’t have played ball?”

“Well, porn seemed like a decent option until I watched that fuckin’ video,” he quipped. Mickey’s head jiggled against Ian’s arm as the pitcher’s body shook with quiet laughter. He peeked over at the redhead, biting his lip as he admired his smiling silhouette in the moonlight. Even in the darkness his hair still shone like nothing he’d ever seen. Fuck he was gorgeous. So, frustratingly gorgeous. He faced the sky again and continued when Ian’s giggles subsided. “Nah, I dunno, man, I’d have probably just ended up in prison.”

“Last place you’d wanna be with that ass,” Ian responded seriously.

It was Mickey’s turn to laugh. He elbowed the redhead in his side. “What about you, college boy?” he asked.

Ian shrugged. “Maybe a sports writer. My degree is in Liberal Arts.”

“That’d be a decent gig.” Just then the cat they’d seen earlier jumped from the stands onto the field. They watched it trot across the infield and climb the wall on the other side. “You think that thing lives here?” Mickey asked.

“Maybe. It’s really skinny.” 

“I had a cat when I was a kid that sorta looked like that. Some dumb fuck tied it to a telephone pole and shot it up with a BB gun.”

Ian looked over at him with narrowed eyes. “In Canaryville or Armour Square?”

“Armour Square.”

“Probably not my brother then.”

Mickey turned his head to look at him as well. “He a sociopath?”

“Kinda,” Ian answered candidly.

“One in every family,” Mickey reasoned and they turned their heads back. “You got any more siblings?”

“Two sisters and two more brothers. My mom would show up every few years to drop another kid on us and take off again. Our dad’s a useless drunk so my older sister basically raised us.”

“It's a miracle we turned out so good,” Mickey stated. Humble as always.

“Probably wouldn't have if not for ball.”

“Definitely wouldn't have,” Mickey agreed. He lifted his arm between them and pointed at a star. “That’s Jupiter right there.”

“You can see Jupiter without a telescope?”

“You’re lookin’ at it. That orangey fucker there is Mars,” he said, moving his hand a little.

Ian didn't say anything right away but when he did his voice was pensive. “You're full of surprises, Mickey Milkovich,” he uttered. He reached up and gently stroked the ‘K’ on Mickey’s pointer finger. “What’s the story behind these?”

Mickey splayed his fingers under Ian’s touch. “Milkovich family tradition. My dad and brothers got ‘em too.” He sighed. “Fuckin’ dumb.”

“I kinda like 'em.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” Ian hummed.

“I plan to get ‘em covered eventually. For now, they’re a good reminder of where I’ll end up if I blow this baseball thing.” He dropped his arm back to his chest. 

Ian turned his head to look at him again and Mickey did the same. “You're gonna make it, Mick. You already have. You’re amazing,” he assured him. Mickey blinked at the sincerity he found when he searched the redhead's eyes. Under Ian's solemn gaze, he couldn't say what he knew to be true, that all it would take was one misstep and he'd be back in the clutches of his youth. 

Suddenly, the moment felt overwhelming. With the fog of the marijuana beginning to wear thin, being so close to Ian, tucked into his side like he was, seemed like an extraordinary kind of torture. He cleared his throat and looked away. “It's getting late. We should get going,” he suggested. 

Without waiting for a response, he heaved himself up and reached down to offer Ian a helping hand. The pitcher gripped it firmly and Mickey yanked him upright. Ian stumbled into him, grabbing the brunet’s shoulder to steady his feet as Mickey instinctively wrapped his free arm around his waist in support. When Ian regained his balance, their eyes locked.

Ian lifted his hand from Mickey’s shoulder and cupped the side of his head. He rested it there a moment before he pulled his hand away, holding something in his fingers. “Grass,” he explained with a small shrug.

“Thanks,” Mickey said, his voice thick.

A grin spread across the redhead’s face, cutting through the tension between them. “Here, lemme check if any are stuck on your ass,” he joked, attempting to spin Mickey around by the shoulders.

Mickey laughed and pushed him off. “Quit tryin’ to molest me.”

“Come on Mick, I’ll let you play with my hair,” he teased, grabbing for him again.

Mickey swatted him away. “You know what?” Mickey asked. “I think you were meant to be trouble for me no matter when we met.” 

Ian chuckled softly. As they turned to make their way back the way they’d come, Ian rested an arm across Mickey’s shoulders. “Hey Mick,” he said seriously, “before we go, can you show me Uranus?”

Mickey hip-checked him and took off down the field, laughing as Ian gave chase. They reached the outfield wall and slammed into it in a breathless heap.

Ian had him pressed against the wall again, but this time when Mickey turned in his arms, the only coherent thought he had was how good it felt, how the last thing he wanted was for Ian to let go. Maybe it was the remnants of the weed or maybe it was the atmosphere. Whatever it was, they stood, staring at each other, Ian’s face framed by the expanse of black above, panting soft breaths into the night, feeling their playful mood shift into something else. Mickey willed Ian towards him and he came, his hands finding their way to the sides of his face. He leaned in slowly, slow enough for Mickey to stop him if he was determined to do so, and let their lips brush together softly. He pulled back to study Mickey’s eyes, their lips tingling where they’d touched. 

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Mickey shot a hand into his hair and drew him back in. Ian’s mouth was so warm against his, the caress of his lips so much better than a simple kiss had any right to be, that the field fell away around them. He added more pressure to the kiss, deepening it, letting their tongues slide against each other in the heat of their mouths. 

Ian slid a hand to his back and pulled his lips away to bury his face in Mickey’s neck, his breath so hot against his flesh it practically burned. Mickey opened his eyes and saw the ballfield around them: the stands in the distance, the bases where the game played out, the dugout where his teammates would sit the very next day, and he crashed back to reality. 

“Ian,“ he said softly. 

“I like you so much, Mick,” Ian whispered against his skin. He pressed a soft kiss to Mickey’s neck.

God, he liked him too. It was fucking ridiculous how much. He closed his eyes against the sting of what he had to do.

“Ian,“ he sighed.

“I know,“ Ian breathed. He lifted his head and looked at Mickey so miserably it made his heart ache. Mickey bit his lip, tasted Ian there, and his heart throbbed even more.

“C'mon,” he said and patted the red hair under his hand. He let go of him then, as much as it pained him to do so, and Ian did the same. 

They struggled over the wall again, Mickey and Ian, with the weight of their kiss heavy on their minds. When they were about to part at the corner, Ian grabbed Mickey’s wrist. “I’m not sorry that happened,” he told him.

“I’m not either,” Mickey replied simply. It was true. “But it can’t happen again," he said, even as his body screamed for it to happen again and again and again.

Ian nodded but held onto him a moment longer. He grinned. “Could you taste the lollipop?”

Mickey laughed and jabbed at him as he turned away. “You’re a dick,” he called over his shoulder. He could feel Ian’s eyes on him again as he walked. The smile it formed on his face and the warmth it spread through his body left no doubt that he was completely fucked up on that redhead and there was absolutely nothing he could do to change it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **BASEBALL TERMS IN THIS CHAPTER:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **No Hitter** \- a completed game in which a team that batted in at least nine innings recorded no hits. A pitcher who prevents the opposing team from achieving a hit is said to have "thrown a no-hitter".
> 
> \---------------------------------------------
> 
> That lollipop thing legit happened to a friend of mine from university. GAG!


	7. Chapter 7

Ian had been staring at the same smudge on the countertop for the last twenty minutes. He’d been eating, mechanically, but his thoughts were elsewhere: on a dark ballfield where his heart, for a few fleeting moments, had never felt more light.

Kissing Mickey had made him painfully aware that he’d never really kissed anyone; whatever had come before was so forgettable in comparison it was absurd. Even now, all these hours later, their flawless kiss lingered on his lips like smoke after fire. He was convinced it would linger there until his dying day; a day that couldn't come soon enough for his tormented soul.

And, as if the kiss itself weren't enough to consume him, every minute at the ballfield with Mickey had been idyllic. What chance did his heart have?

He should be at the park by now. Not for the game, although they had one, but to meet Mickey for what had become their shared pregame ritual. Every time he’d thought about heading over this morning his legs felt weak. What if Mickey wasn’t there? Or worse, what if he was and things had changed between them? They'd been high and a little drunk; maybe Mickey regretted the entire evening.

Fowler entered the common area of their apartment and barked at him, “Clean your plate before you leave.”

Ian ignored him. Not on purpose but he would have done it purposefully if his mind had been in the room.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he flinched. When he pulled it out and saw it was a text from Mickey his hand trembled.

 **[Mickey]** u coming?  
**[Mickey]** don’t know if I can handle a whole cigarette by myself anymore

He jumped to his feet, caught the stool before it could topple onto the floor and forced his shaking hand to type back a response.

 **[Ian]** omw, there in 5

He stashed his plate in the sink and lurched to the front door to pull his sneakers on with Fowler complaining loudly from the kitchen that his plate would still be there when he got back.

The apartment was a ten minute walk to the stadium; if he ran he'd make it there in five. Grabbing his bag, he took off down the street and didn't pause until he'd torn through the clubhouse and was standing, lungs burning, at the entrance to the dugout. He attempted to collect himself then: smoothing his windswept hair, adjusting his sweat slicked t-shirt, calming his heaving chest.

When he stepped out, he saw Mickey right away, standing on the field with his back to him, leaning on the dugout railing. Ian ascended the stairs slowly, his pulse accelerating with each labored step. Mickey turned towards him and stole his breath.

“Hey,” he said in the same voice that had echoed in Ian's head all night.

“Hi,” he rasped in response, just now realizing he hadn't used his vocal chords all day.

Mickey looked so good. He hadn't shaved this morning and the shadow of stubble on his face was unfairly sexy; the blue in his eyes was practically glowing in the sunlight; his hair, long on top, was tousled in Ian's favorite way. How could he look so hot at a time like this?

Ian knew he was staring and the more he stared, the more his eyes drifted to Mickey’s lips; they’d been a distraction before he’d even known what they felt like against his own. Now, it was impossible to think about anything besides kissing him again. He wanted to pull him close, slide his fingers over the stubble of his jaw and whisper against his lips how gorgeous he was before he stuck his tongue down his throat and never let him up for air again.

Fuck. He needed Mickey safely out of his field of vision. He wrenched himself away, only to have his eyes land on the very wall that they’d kissed against the night before. His eyes darted from there in search of solace in the familiar shape of the mound, but all his mind could see was them laying beside it and discussing the stars. He turned again, putting Mickey at his back, which was fucking weird so he turned yet again to face the dugout which was just as weird. He turned one last time, coming full circle, ending in the same position he’d started from. He couldn’t bring himself to look Mickey in the eye, opting to shake his head and sigh at the ground instead.

Mickey chuckled. “The fuck was that?”

“What?” Ian asked, as if he didn't know. He was spiraling, literally and figuratively.

“You, actin’ like someone’s thumb just slipped on your controller.”

Ian laughed despite his agony. He peeked at Mickey and found the brunet smiling at him fondly. It gave him the nerve to keep his head up.

Mickey took a step closer. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes at him. “You losin’ your shit again?”

“No.”

“You didn’t drop your bag off,” Mickey said, pointing at the small duffel that had attacked Ian’s hip the entire jog over. He’d been too preoccupied with getting there to stop at the locker room.

“I was late,” he explained. “I’m okay.”

Mickey cocked his head and studied him. “And we’re okay?”

“We’re okay.”

“Good, ‘cause I wanna take you somewhere after the game.”

Ian blinked. What? “You want to take me somewhere after the game,” he repeated slowly.

“You don’t seem okay,” Mickey observed.

He slotted a cigarette between his lips and lit it. After he’d taken a drag he held it out for Ian who eyed it as though it were just as contaminated as the stripper’s lollipop that had been forced upon him the night before.

He’d run here for it, and now he couldn't take it.

Mickey put a hand on his arm. “Hey,” he said kindly, “you freakin' out about last night?”

Ian’s pretenses disintegrated under his touch. “I can't stop thinking about it,” he sighed.

Mickey searched his face, took a deep breath and blew it out through his nose. “Yeah, I can't either.”

“You can't?” he asked, amazed.

“Yeah,” Mickey confirmed. He let Ian's arm go and took another puff of his cigarette. “That lollipop was fuckin' gross.”

Ian's brow furrowed until Mickey's face erupted in an impish grin. The redhead huffed out a laugh. “You're such a jerk.”

Mickey waggled his eyebrows at him and held the cigarette out again. “Last night was great. Now take it and stop bein' so fuckin' weird. ”

Ian's fears that anything had changed between them were abated at least, even if his spirit was still in anguish. He was relieved to hear that Mickey thought it had been great too, that he wouldn't have to pretend it hadn't been.

He took the cigarette and leaned back against the railing. “It was great,” he agreed. He caught Mickey's eye and they shared a meaningful look between them. The men quietly surveyed the field while Ian let the smoke and Mickey's presence soothe him. He remembered what the second baseman had said earlier. “You want to take me somewhere after the game?” It was another afternoon game, their last for some time.

“Yeah, you free?”

“Yup.” If he wasn't, he would be. He was about to ask him where they were going when Coach Meacham appeared in the dugout behind them and said hello. It didn't matter, he'd follow Mickey anywhere. They quickly finished their cigarette and went inside to change. A few of their teammates had arrived and were in various states of undress in the locker room.

When Butler saw them he pounced. “What the hell happened to you two last night?”

Ian looked at Mickey and then back at Butler. “I realized strip clubs aren't my thing,” he said confidently.

“Not your thing?” Butler asked skeptically.

“Look at him, you think he's gotta pay to get some action?” Mickey scoffed.

“You're saying I do?”

It was the most irritated Ian had heard a teammate get at Mickey but the brunet wasn't fazed. “Yeah,” he replied like it should be obvious.

Inexplicably, Butler grinned, punched Mickey in the arm lightly and called him an asshole. Affectionately. Ian shook his head at it and walked away. It wasn’t like he was in any position to judge, he was under Mickey’s spell too.

***

They won the game; Mickey's plan to get more runs by getting more hits had been executed perfectly. Even more importantly to Ian, Mickey had chatted with him in the dugout between innings with his usual ease.

“You wanna workout before we go?” Mickey asked Ian when they got back to the locker room. “If we leave now, we’ll be stuck signing autographs.”

With two afternoon games back to back, the team had had very minimal practice the last two days. A workout sounded like a great idea. “Yeah, I’m in.”

After they'd indulged in the team's catered meal, they changed out of their uniforms into tanks and shorts and met in the gym. With just one treadmill, one elliptical, a weight bench, some medicine balls and a rack of dumbbells, it wasn’t well equipped; their teammates didn’t opt to use it very often, preferring to join the bigger gyms around town. Running being his exercise of choice, Ian went for the treadmill. Mickey loaded weight plates on the barbell and Ian had the pleasure of watching. A shirtless Peralta joined them shortly after and spotted Mickey through his sets until Mickey switched to crunches.

Peralta began doing dumbbell curls a few feet from the large mirror that lined one side of the room; fixated on his own reflection as he slowly lifted the weights up and down. Ian noticed Mickey watching and couldn’t stifle the pang of jealousy it invoked. The relief pitcher was a good looking guy who clearly knew how to take care of his body.

“Hey, Peralta, you want us to leave you two alone?” Mickey called. Peralta grinned at him and kept counting his reps. “I hope you’re not one of those fuckin’ wankers who takes mirror selfies,” he directed at Ian. He paused. “Actually, maybe it’s better if you are.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to find another reason not to like me,” he panted.

“I guarantee you that guy jerks off to his own picture,” Mickey snarked loud enough for Peralta to hear.

Ian laughed; at Mickey, at Peralta's eye-roll, but also at himself for being jealous of Peralta in the first place.

By the time they all returned from the gym, sweaty and in need of a good scrub, the locker room was empty but for the three of them. They were wordless as they undressed. Peralta left for the showers and Ian turned to Mickey before the brunet could strip out of his underwear. “Are you getting a shower?” he asked. Ian had mastered showering in Mickey’s presence with their teammates present, but doing it when it was just them and Peralta seemed altogether different after the events of the previous evening.

“Yeah, aren’t you?” Mickey read Ian's uneasy expression and grinned. “You worried you can’t control yourself?” He was biting his lip and eyeing Ian up and down in that way that made the redhead's stomach lurch.

“No,” Ian boasted despite there being no shortage of recent examples to refute him. “Are you?”

Mickey smirked. “A little.” He turned away and left Ian’s heart to do flips.

Ian chucked his underwear in his locker and headed to the showers; might as well get it over with. Mickey trailed behind him and Ian knew damn well he was staring at his bare ass. He chose a shower close to the entrance and Mickey chose one a few down from him. When Ian set the water temperature to freezing and grimaced as he moved under the spray Mickey lifted an amused eyebrow. “Shut up,” Ian said preemptively. He faced the wall, shut his eyes and rinsed his hair, picturing as many disturbing images as he could: ISIS, spider sacks, strippers and their lollipops; anything but the naked, wet, sexy, motherfucking tease beside him. But he could feel Mickey’s eyes on him and it superseded everything else he tried to conjure.

He heard Peralta turn off his water somewhere behind him, pad across the wet tile and leave. _Fuck._

The water was like ice, he was starting to shiver, but it was his only saving grace. He pushed at the soap dispenser near him, came up empty and sighed that the next closest one was right beside Mickey. 

“Mine's full,” Mickey informed him, ever so helpfully. Ian decided he didn't need soap and Mickey snickered when he didn't move. “You look cold,” he teased.

“Mickey,” he pleaded, “you’re torturing me.”

“I’m just standin' here,” Mickey replied, the picture of innocence. “In my warm water. With my soap.” Ian could hear the flirty smile in his voice.

He finally looked at the brunet and regretted it immediately. Ian had never known how to be close to Mickey without aching for more. But now, his body had a memory imprinted on it; he knew what his face felt like in his palms, he’d tasted his skin, slid his tongue between his lips. And there he was, bare and glistening and reflecting the want in his eyes that Ian had in his own.

Ian charged across the floor and stepped into Mickey’s shower. He snaked an arm around his waist, dug the fingers of his other hand into his hair and tugged their bodies flush, their faces close enough that their noses touched.

“Fuck, you’re freezing,” Mickey winced. His hands had landed between them, on Ian’s chest. He glided them over his cool skin, pausing over Ian’s hammering heart and looking him in the eye.

“You’re warm,” Ian whispered, stroking Mickey's cheek with his thumb. He could feel himself getting hard and he didn't give a fuck anymore.

“Thought you could control yourself,” Mickey goaded.

“I _am_ ,” Ian growled and Mickey chuckled. He slid his hands into Ian's hair and stroked the strands this way and that. Ian closed his eyes and rested their foreheads together, hoping to prolong the time that Mickey would let him hold him like this. “Why do you get to play with my hair and I don't get to play with your ass?” he wondered out loud, letting his hand drift a little lower on Mickey's back.

Mickey laughed and extracted a hand from red hair to snatch at Ian's wandering one. “You need to go back to your own shower now,” he told him.

“But it's so cold,” Ian complained as he nuzzled into Mickey's shoulder.

“I'm done, you can have this one.”

“It's not your shower I want,” Ian mumbled. He breathed out a long sigh and released Mickey from his grasp. “Go, before I attack you,” he ordered.

Mickey grinned and ruffled his hair one more time. Ian watched him go with regret. He should have at least copped a fucking feel.

***

They'd successfully avoided autograph seekers and were loading into the car that Mickey had borrowed from Axford when Ian finally asked him where they were going.

“There're some kids who play ball ten minutes form here. They've got shit all, so a couple times a year I bring them the equipment the team's throwin' out. I stay and toss the ball around with them, give them some pointers. A few of 'em are pretty good.”

That was the last thing Ian had expected him to say and he was speechless.

“What?” Mickey asked him a little defensively as he pulled away from the parking lot.

“That's just... really fucking cool,” Ian spluttered.

Mickey shrugged. “The team chucks stuff when it gets a fuckin' scuff on it. It's better than anything these kids got.”

Ian didn't know what to say; he was still processing the fact that the guy he wasn't supposed to be falling for was fucking perfect. Even more bewildering, Mickey wanted him to be a part of it in some way. He hadn't known, until now, that a heart could be so full of joy and sorrow at the exact same time.

They drove in silence, Ian watching the buildings outside the window become more and more derelict as they drove. When they parked at an abandoned storefront across from a field, they got out of the car. Mickey popped the trunk and pulled a duffel bag out that looked to be heavier than he was. “Want me to carry it?” Ian offered. Mickey shot him an unimpressed look and Ian smiled sweetly.

Nestled between dilapidated warehouses and even more dilapidated apartment buildings, the ballfield was surprisingly large; with an infield on both ends, it spanned at least three city blocks. The turf was more brown than green and more weed than grass, but the terrain was flat and the infield dirt was well groomed. And though the sides of the streets were lined with bits of trash, the field itself had been kept relatively tidy. There were no dugouts or fences, but there was a backstop and some small, heavily grafittied, metal bleachers sitting askew along the first and third base lines.

It reminded Ian so much of the fields of his youth that it was like being transported back in time.

There were a dozen or so kids on the field, mostly Hispanic and black, that looked to be thirteen or fourteen years old at most. They were throwing balls around when they saw Mickey and dropped them in favor of swarming the second baseman.

“Alright, alright,” Mickey scolded. “Wait a damn minute.” He dropped the bag on the infield and the boys began to dig through it for treasures. They exclaimed over bats, balls, gloves, helmets, and even a pair of turf shoes that Ian could see nothing at all wrong with. A boy with a gun tattooed on the side of his neck approached Mickey with the biggest, whitest grin Ian had ever seen and thanked him with a hug. Mickey submitted to it reluctantly and directed the boy's attention to Ian instead.

“This is Gallagher, a new pitcher that just started with us,” he told him. “He's really fuckin' good. For sure gonna be in the majors.” The kid's eyes lit up. So did Ian's. “This is Marucs,” Mickey said to Ian. “Maybe you can show him somethin'?”

“You pitch?” Ian asked him.

“Yes, sir,” the boy confirmed.

“Let's do it.” They moved to the mound and Ian asked him what pitches he knew, how long he'd been pitching, what his best pitch was. The kid, despite his harsh exterior, was unfailingly polite. Ian watched him throw a few balls and gave him pointers. He had a lot of potential.

Even as he instructed Marcus, Ian kept an eye on Mickey playing catch with the other boys. He could picture him at this age, on a field like this, with dreams as big as these kids had. He looked like he belonged here, and that, Ian understood, was the point. A pro player that had roots in a place like this would mean the world to these kids; if he could make it, they could too.

Marcus asked Ian to show him his heater and he did. The other players stopped what they were doing when the baseball clanged off the backstop. “Holy shit, how hard do you throw?!” Marcus queried.

“Around a hundred but that was more like ninety.”

Mickey sidled up beside them. “You wanna play for a bit?” he asked him. 

Ian smiled and nodded. 

They divided up into two teams of seven; Mickey on one team and Ian on the other. It was decided they'd play two innings and that Ian would pitch for his team but not at his usual velocity; he'd essentially toss them batting practice balls, more or less over the plate at around 60 mph. Except Mickey. Mickey was getting the real deal.

Ian borrowed a glove from the other team and took the mound. Mickey's team was up to bat first but Mickey was batting sixth. He took advantage of his idle time by teaching the kids the art of heckling pitchers. “I've seen better pitching in T-ball!” he yelled at Ian after he threw his second pitch. “Better get the bullpen busy!” he barked after the third. 

Another pitch and one of the boys beside Mickey shouted, “You couldn't pitch hay!”. Mickey laughed while Ian chuckled. He got through the inning like that, throwing with a smile on his face. His fielders weren't on par with what he was used to so he give up a couple base hits, but Mickey's team didn't score. Not that anybody gave a shit about the score; the kids were as thrilled to just be playing with the pro ballers as Mickey and Ian were to be playing with each other.

With only seven players on each team, Ian would be forced to bat. Pitchers didn't hit in college leagues or in the International League that the Bisons belonged to. Holding a bat in his hands felt as foreign as pitching probably would have to Mickey. He was up fourth though, so he figured Mickey had earned himself a few heckles in the meantime. Only, he couldn't think of a single goddamned one on the spot. 

When he was up, he grabbed a bat and pretended to know what the fuck he was doing at the plate. He could hear Mickey cackling when he swung and missed on two pitches in a row. He caught the edge of the third pitch though and sprinted to first base just in time to beat the throw. When he got to second on the next batter's base hit, Mickey didn't leave his side; calling for the ball and shoving him off the base whenever Ian stopped paying attention to him. Ian laughed and wrestled to keep his foot on the rubber and managed to stay safe until the next batter struck out. 

“You wait,” he warned Mickey playfully as they trotted back across the infield. Mickey was up to bat at the top of the second and Ian intended to show no mercy.

He told the catcher to stay off to the side until the second batter; if the kid tried to catch his fastball he'd undoubtedly get hurt. Mickey came up to the plate with an exaggerated version of the smug attitude Ian was used to seeing during the Bison's games. It was funny as hell but Ian practiced his steely glare on him.

He threw a fastball a little high and well inside in an attempt to shake Mickey up. The second baseman didn’t swing at what was clearly meant to be a ball. “It’s a good thing you got your degree!” the cocky fucker yelled. Ian couldn’t stop himself from smiling. 

His second pitch was a fastball that he put as much heat on as he could and Mickey swung and missed. The satisfaction Ian felt when it whizzed past his teammate was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Mickey grinned and raised his eyebrows while the kids whooped. 

“You got nothing to say now?” Ian mocked. 

“I’ll tell you what I thought of that one later,” he promised with a devilish smirk. Ian was pretty confident he was flirting.

He wound up and threw the third pitch. Mickey caught enough of it to drill it to third. It wouldn't have been a hit in their league, but the third baseman didn't handle it cleanly and Mickey was probably too fast for him to throw out even if he had. “You're lucky!” Ian called when Mickey got to first safely.

“Not luck, talent,” he called back.

As Ian prepared to pitch to the next batter, Mickey took a giant lead off of first. Ian rotated toward him and Mickey trotted back to the base. “Don’t even think about it,” the pitcher ordered. Mickey chuckled and waited for him to turn before taking the same lead. Ian pivoted toward him again and Mickey jumped back onto base. “Stay there,” he warned.

When Mickey took an even bigger lead the third time, his team chanted “steal it, steal it” from the sidelines. This time when Ian spun, he threw the ball to the first baseman but Mickey scrambled back in time laughing. Ian counted it as a win that he managed to keep him from stealing as he got the next three batters out with two ground balls and an infield fly.

Ian's team scored a run in the bottom half of that inning, so technically they won. It was starting to get dark so as soon as they were done, the kids packed up their new gear, said their goodbyes and trickled away from the field. 

Mickey sat on one of the bleachers and lit up a cigarette so Ian plopped down beside him. A gunshot sounded in the distance but neither of them flinched.

“You looked like you were havin’ fun,” Mickey commented.

“I was,” he assured him. It was the most fun he’d had playing ball in a long time. Ian was reminded of what Mickey had said at the ballfield the night before, about him needing to get out of his own head. He had tonight and he hoped the feeling would stay with him into Tuesday's start.

“Good.”

“How'd you start doing this?” Ian asked.

Mickey let smoke curl out of his nose and passed his cigarette to Ian. “Last year, I saw the team throwin' out gear that I would have killed to have when I was a kid. I asked for it and found these boys playin' here. Figured they could use it. You shoulda seen the junk they were usin’.”

Ian nodded. “I can imagine.” He studied Mickey as the brunet stared thoughtfully across the expanse of grass in front of them.

“Maybe it’ll keep them from havin' to steal or sell drugs to keep playin’,” Mickey said, shrugging. He lowered his head and flicked red ash between his legs. 

“That what you did?” He was sure he already knew the answer.

Mickey eyed him soberly. “Did whatever I had to.” 

Ian wished he could touch him then. There had been so many times that he’d wished for that, but in this moment, he just ached to comfort him. Mickey was so sure that the ghosts of his past still haunted him and Ian would do anything to vanquish them. He settled for knocking shoulders with him and saying, “I get it,” because he did. A quiet moment stretched between them before Ian spoke again, “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“Thanks for comin’.”

“Glad I got to pitch to you.”

Mickey blew out a breath. “That second pitch,” he muttered, “so hot.”

Ian laughed. “What about my batting?”

He snickered. “You nearly got struck out by a thirteen year old.”

Fair enough. They passed the cigarette back and forth a few more times. Ian sighed when it was almost gone and he sensed they’d soon be leaving. He’d spent most of the last two days with Mickey and it still wasn’t enough; there was probably no amount of time that would be.

“What’s up?” Mickey asked him.

His eyes were so blue even in the twilight; the way they bore into Ian’s drew a confession from his lips that he hadn’t intended to make. “Mickey,” he said solemnly, “you’re making it fucking impossible not to fall for you.”

Mickey held his gaze. “You’ve been pretty steady on your feet lately,” he teased gently. Ian smiled sadly and breathed out a laugh. Mickey clasped the side of his head and tapped their foreheads together. “I know the feeling,” he whispered before standing up. 

Ian sat still a second longer, absorbing his words, and then followed after him. Sirens blared from somewhere nearby but the men on the field took no notice. Mickey shouldered his empty bag and they crossed the street to Axford’s car together. On the way back to Ian's they argued about whether Mickey's hit had really been a hit; keeping the conversation light in a vain attempt to revive the carefree mood they'd had during the game. 

After he'd been dropped off, Ian watched Mickey drive away. As soon as his car was out of sight, he felt incomplete; like Mickey had taken a piece of him with him when he’d left. _Is this what love feels like?_ he wondered as he let himself into his apartment. He had no real clue, but if it was, he sure as fuck hadn't expected it to hurt so much. 

***

Ian pitched two days later against the Syracuse Chiefs. It was his first start at home and he'd been relaxed, ready and more excited than he was nervous. The experience was one he'd never forget. The way the crowd cheered every time a pitch clocked in at over 100mph on the radar gun had him throwing his heaters like missiles. He hit 102 for the first time in his baseball career and Mickey clapped him on his back so hard afterward that it hurt for the rest of the day. He didn't mind one bit. 

He left the game in the seventh with a two run lead and his teammates locked it down for him in the last two innings, giving him his first win as a pro. To top it off, it was a promotional night at the ballpark and the Bisons let off fireworks after the game. Ian and a few of his teammates, including Mickey, clamored out of the clubhouse to take in the festivities. Maybe Ian watched the colors play on Mickey's profile more than he watched the actual lights in the sky, but he couldn't help that his eyes were drawn by the man's superior beauty.

Mickey's implied admission that he was falling for him had only made Ian more enamored with his raven haired teammate. As self-destructive as he recognized it probably was, where Mickey was concerned, he would willingly take the pleasure despite the pain.


	8. Chapter 8

“Sit in the back,” Mickey suggested to Ian as they boarded their team bus. It was a Friday morning and the Bisons were headed to Scranton to play the RailRiders. They had a four hour trip ahead of them.

“I don't know if I'm cool enough for that."

“You're definitely not, but it's okay if you're with me.”

Ian jabbed him in the shoulder but followed him to the back and took the row in front of Mickey's usual spot. The players tended to gravitate to the same seats on road trips but with men coming and going to the majors fairly regularly, no one got annoyed if it was changed up.

As they settled in, the tuft of red hair that Mickey could see over the seat back had him grinning. It wasn't long before Ian had found his way into the seat beside him. Mickey ignored the curious glances they got, it wasn't at all unusual for the guys to double up for a conversation or to play a game, it was just unusual for Mickey to be the one doing it.

Ian had a knack for getting him to do all sorts of things he didn't normally do. Like feel shit that he had no business feeling for his teammate; like smile, laugh and share more than he had with anyone in recent memory; like have him looking forward to a six day road trip as if it were fucking Christmas. No matter how much time they'd spent together in the last two weeks, Mickey was always left craving more. It was a recipe for disaster, yet here he was enthusiastically whipping up a four course meal.

So they sat together on the bus, watched shows, discussed the RailRiders and told baseball war stories that had them both laughing. It didn't have to be more than that to be good; he’d enjoy the parts of Ian that he could and not think about the rest.

When they arrived in Scranton, the team was dropped off at the ballfield rather than at the hotel; it was too late in the day to check in and get back in time for batting practice. From there, the day proceeded as it typically did. This was their tenth game in as many days and after awhile one field began to blend into the next, one opponent into another. As typical in baseball as it was in life, the things that stood out from the daily grind didn’t happen all that often.

Mickey’s game had started off with a lead-off double into left field. He’d fared well against Scranton in their last meet-up and the day seemed to be leaning in his favor again. It was, at least, until the top of the eighth, with the game tied 2-2, when Mickey came up for his fourth at bat and experienced that ‘oh shit’ moment that every batter has had at one time or another – the ball was going to hit him. He knew it as soon as it left the pitcher's hand. The catcher uselessly yelled ‘watch out’ but with four tenths of a second to react, the most Mickey could do was tuck in his elbow to protect his ribs and twist. It hit him in his lat. Mickey could take a punch like a champ, but being hit by a 95mph fastball was like getting smoked with a fucking hammer. His eyes watered and he doubled over to catch his breath. For thirty seconds he couldn’t think about anything besides the pain radiating through his back. 

When he finally straightened, he didn’t even look in the pitcher's direction; if he saw anything besides utter shame on his face he might have charged the mound. He dropped his bat and walked to first instead. A glance at the Bisons’ dugout found most of his teammates standing at the railing sporting uneasy expressions. He waved at them that he was fine. There was zero chance of him stealing second though.

The next batter grounded out and Mickey trotted back to the dugout to grab his glove. Ian had collected it for him and handed it over. “You okay?” he asked.

“Gonna have a helluva bruise,” he replied as he turned to jog back out to position. Ian would know what it felt like, pitcher's got beaned by line drives often enough. It was part of the job.

The third at bat of that inning, the ball was hit hard between first and second and Mickey dove for it. He got to it in time but he favored his bruised side and landed oddly in the dirt; his wrist taking the brunt of his weight. It hurt like hell fire. From his knees, he flipped the ball to first for the last out as if nothing had happened.

He cursed his shit luck and sought out the athletic trainer who took him into the clubhouse to wrap and ice it.

“You got hurt?” Ian asked as soon as Mickey sat down on the dugout bench.

“Tweaked my wrist.”

“Shit. You playing the rest of the game?”

“Got pulled.” A utility player would fill his position for the last inning.

Ian's forehead creased with worry. “You think you'll play tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” he said, but doubted it; the day after seemed more likely.

He’d been fortunate enough to have never had a major injury. He credited his South Side roots for making his body tough as nails. As annoying as it was, this was no big deal. It did put him in a bit of a foul mood though.

They got a run in the ninth to earn the win over the RailRiders. The team was festive, because of the win, but also because one of the pitcher’s wives had given birth in Mexico overnight and he’d brought them all liquor to celebrate. Mickey, however, wasn’t interested and Ian found him shouldering his bag to leave.

“You’re not staying for a drink?”

“Nah, heading to the hotel.”

“You sure?” Ian looked like he wasn’t certain he wanted to stay without him. Mickey wasn’t certain he wanted to leave without Ian. His body fucking hurt though and besides, he hardly knew the pitcher, Salazar; the man barely spoke a word of English.

“Yeah, man, I’ll see you there,” Mickey replied over his shoulder on his way out.

Fifteen minutes after Mickey had settled on top of his bed with an ice pack and his tablet, Ian walked in.

“Hey,” Mickey said, surprised.

“Hi.”

“Changed your mind about stayin’?”

Ian nodded. “You seemed kinda bummed, thought maybe I could cheer you up.”

“Yeah?” If anybody could, it’d be Ian.

“Nabbed this for us,” he said, pulling a bottle out of his bag and setting it on the nightstand between their beds.

“Tequila?” Mickey asked disdainfully.

“Salazar is Mexican. It was this or Mezcal.”

“The fuck is Mezcal?”

“Exactly.”

Mickey paused. “I’m not drinkin’ tequila with you.”

“Why not?”

He rolled his eyes. “You know why not.”

Ian poked through his bag for the lime slices he’d apparently pilfered as well. “You don’t think you can keep it in your pants around me?”

Mickey scoffed. “As if I’m the one we gotta worry about.”

“So you’re in then?” Ian asked with a grin. Mickey chewed his lip. “It's good stuff, I had a few shots already.”

Ian grabbed two glasses from their kitchenette. He placed one on his bed and one beside the tequila bottle on the side table before digging in his pocket for his keys. Sitting on the edge of Mickey’s bed, he extracted a tiny foam baseball from his chain as Mickey looked on, wondering what the fuck he was up to. He threw the ball at the cup on his bed and landed it on the first try so he got up and moved the cup further away.

Mickey gave in to his curiosity. “What the fuck are you doin’?”

“It's a drinking game.”

“Huh?”

“If I get it in the cup, I’ll ask you a question. Answer it or take a shot.”

Mickey’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Excuse me?” Drinking tequila with Ian seemed like a terrible fucking idea all by itself, turning it into a weird drinking game was worse.

“We could just do body shots,” Ian suggested with a playful smile.

“I'm not doin' fuckin' body shots.”

“Okay then.” He held the ball out to Mickey. “We’ll take turns; you go first,” he offered. When Mickey didn’t move to take it he brought his hand back, “Or don’t, I’ll go first.”

He lobbed the ball; it hit the edge of the glass and landed on the bed. He retrieved it and tossed it to Mickey who rolled it between his fingers while he weighed his options. On the one hand, neither of them had to play the next day and he felt like shit so some booze would be welcome. On the other hand, Ian in all his sculpted redheaded gorgeousness, was tantalizing enough when he was sober.

Ian looked at him expectantly. _Fuck it_ , he’d had questionable judgment since he met Ian so why stop now. He scooted to the edge of the bed, threw the ball at the cup and missed.

“How’s your back?” Ian asked as he went to get it.

“Hurts,” he grunted.

“Can I see?”

Mickey nodded and Ian lifted up the back of his shirt for him. “Jesus,” he breathed when he saw it.

“It look bad?”

“It looks fucking horrible.” He dropped his shirt. “How’s your wrist?”

“Hurts,” he repeated, smiling meekly.

Ian bit his lip as he studied him. “Well, let’s get some shots in you then.” He threw the ball and it landed in the cup. Mickey sighed. What was he thinking playing this game with a goddamned pitcher?

Ian steepled his fingers and turned to Mickey with his first question, “If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what would you want to do today?” His tone had been innocent but the look Mickey gave him in response was anything but. Ian laughed. “This got dirty quick.” He grinned wickedly, “Be specific.”

Mickey smiled at the ceiling and then leveled his gaze back on Ian. “I’d kiss you again,” he said simply.

Ian arched his brows in surprise. “Yeah? We’d just kiss?”

“Nah,” Mickey said as he got up to get the ball, “we’d fuck all night too.”

Ian hummed. “You know, I haven’t checked the news lately. Maybe there’s an asteroid heading here right now. Or maybe nuclear war has broken out.”

“Hopin' for the apocalypse?”

“I’d die really fucking happy.”

“You and me both.”

Mickey threw the ball again and missed. Ian retrieved it and tossed it in easily.

“I feel like I was hustled,” Mickey complained.

Ian smiled guiltlessly and asked his second question. “Who do you think the hottest guy on our team is?”

“You.”

“Really? Not Peralta?”

Mickey narrowed his eyes at him. “You think Peralta’s hot?” He was attractive, there was no doubt, but it irritated him that Ian thought so.

He shrugged. “I mean, yeah, he’s good looking.” He searched Mickey’s face. “Wait, are you jealous?”

Mickey scoffed. “No.” He’d never been jealous over a guy in his life, he wasn’t fucking jealous. Ian grinned. “Whatever,” he mumbled. “He's got a flat ass.”

“Never noticed. Too busy checking yours out.”

Mickey huffed a laugh, got the ball and threw it; it hit the rim and bounced off. Ian got it in again on his throw.

“I was definitely fuckin' hustled.”

Ian ignored him. “When was your last relationship?”

“Never had one. Unless we're countin' fuck buddies.”

“No, they don't count,” Ian decided. He paused. “I haven't either. Had a relationship, I mean.”

That took Mickey off guard; Ian definitely seemed like the relationship type. He got up to get the ball. When he threw it, it went in the cup but bounced back out and he swore. Ian snickered. When the pitcher retrieved and threw it, surprise, surprise, it went in.

“When was the last time you hooked up with someone?”

Mickey stilled. He wasn't about to tell Ian it had been during their last road trip. He reached for the tequila and poured what he thought was about two shots worth into the glass. Ian's expression changed markedly and he stared at the floor. “Any salt?” Mickey asked him; Ian shook his head no. Mickey knocked back the liquor and sucked on a lime to dull the burn. He looked at Ian. It was obvious what he was thinking and even though they weren't together and it shouldn't matter, Mickey felt compelled to clarify. “Hey,” he said “not, like, lately.”

Ian raised his head and turned somber eyes on him. “I shouldn't care.”

“I shouldn't either,” he stated, implying that he did. He lifted a finger and vacantly slid it along the seam on the outside thigh of Ian's joggers; they both watched it move back and forth for a bit.

Ian sighed. “Pass me the tequila.” Mickey handed over the bottle and Ian tipped it up to take a generous swig. He grabbed a lime on the way to get the ball and shrugged when Mickey looked at him curiously.

He handed the ball to Mickey, who tossed it and it miraculously went in. “Fucking finally,” he said. He had no clue what to ask him though. A thought popped in his head. “If you could bone any celebrity who would you pick?”

“Adam Levine,” he replied without hesitation.

“Huh. You kinda got a type.”

“Yup. I used to think he was the sexiest guy I'd ever seen.”

“Used to?”

“Used to,” he confirmed without breaking eye contact. 

“Until you saw Peralta?”

Ian shook his head. “It’s not him I think about when I’m doing my wrist aerobics.” 

Mickey laughed and took a swig of the bitter liquor. “Is that really what you were doing that day in the shower?”

“I was definitely considering it. You ever think about me when you...,” he asked, gesturing to Mickey's crotch.

“Sure.”

“Yeah?” He smiled suggestively. “What do you think about?”

Mickey took a long swig from the bottle rather than answer and Ian chuckled. He took the bottle from him and did the same. Mickey had lost track of how many shots he’d had but between the tequila and the way Ian was looking at him, he was feeling no pain. He was pretty sure Ian was right there with him.

“You think about me a lot?” Mickey asked.

“All the time.”

Mickey lifted an eyebrow and licked his lips. His mouth suddenly felt dry and he took another sip. “What do you think about?”

“Shouldn't it be obvious by now?”

“Tell me anyway.”

Ian cocked his head, considering his words for a moment before he forged ahead. He leaned a little closer and his voice dropped. “I think about kissing you,” he replied, his eyes boring into Mickey’s. “About how good you taste.” He leaned closer still, or maybe Mickey leaned towards him, he couldn't tell which. “I think about your ass and what I want to do to it.” 

“What do you wanna do to it?” the tequila asked, Mickey was sure it hadn’t been him.

“Wreck it.”

“Who says I take it?” Mickey wondered softly.

“I do, it's my fantasy.” His eyes roamed the brunet’s face. He was only inches away. “You’d take it for me, wouldn’t you, Mick?” he breathed.

Mickey thought about grabbing him and making all of his dreams come true; they were his dreams too after all. “I wanna do a body shot,” he blurted instead.

“You said-”

“Fuck what I said, lay down.” 

Ian ripped his shirt off eagerly and chucked it behind him. He adjusted himself until he was lying on his back, propped on a pillow with his hands behind his head, watching Mickey with interest.

“Comfy?” Mickey teased. Ian nodded happily. He leaned over Ian’s prone body to snatch a lime slice from the bowl on the side table; Ian obligingly held it in his teeth when Mickey pressed it into his mouth.

He shuffled down to straddle his thighs “Pass me the bottle,” he said, his hand outstretched. Ian hurried to comply. Mickey bit his lip, held the bottle over the redhead’s middle and tilted it until the tequila began to spill out and splash in the vicinity of his navel. Ian gasped as the cool liquid hit his skin and Mickey smirked at him. “I’ll warm you up in one sec,” he promised.

He wasn’t at all careful in his pouring, letting the liquid spill onto Ian’s abs and stopping only as the drops snaked their way down his sides onto the bed. There was less than a shot left so he tilted his head back and drained it, tossing the spent bottle behind him as he dove; Ian had a fucking eight pack and Mickey couldn’t wait to get his mouth on it. He dragged his tongue over the hard planes of Ian’s stomach, leisurely tracking the path of each rivulet back to the pool in the middle. He soon lost himself in the feel of smooth skin under his mouth and the taste of Ian beneath the alcohol, the tequila all but forgotten as he explored the redhead’s body further and further north.

Ian inhaled sharply around the lime in his mouth when Mickey’s teeth grazed his nipple. The sound startled Mickey out of his trance. He froze. What the fuck was he doing? He glanced up to find Ian looking at him with wide eyes. He sat up as quickly as his tequila assaulted body could handle.

They stared at each other.

Ian spat the lime out and rocketed up, sliding his hands to Mickey’s ass as he came. He looked up at him with an intensity that had Mickey’s heart racing.

Mickey told himself he couldn’t do this; he cared too much about Ian’s career, about his own career, about both of their hearts. He repeated it to himself as he searched Ian’s hungry eyes. He repeated it to himself even as he moved towards him, the gravity of his lips inescapable. He stopped repeating it at the first taste of lime on Ian’s tongue.

He surrendered to Ian’s mouth, to the sting of his fingers, to the heat of his body surrounding him. His hand found its favorite perch in red hair and pressed him harder against him while Ian did the same, tugging fiercely on Mickey in an effort to get him close enough. Their kiss turned desperate and needy; laced with the longing they’d been fighting so hard against, fueled by the tequila that coursed through their veins. Breathless and panting and wanting more, Ian bit at Mickey’s lips and worked his way downward to mouth a ravenous line along his throat. He slipped his hands beneath the hem of his shirt and scorched a trail up his back. When he brushed against his bruise, Mickey winced and Ian's lips fell away. 

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Mickey shook his head and pulled him back in. It didn't hurt as much as not being connected to him did.

Ian lifted Mickey's shirt as his hands slid higher. They parted so he could yank it over the brunet’s head and down his arms, but it snagged on the bandage around Mickey's wrist and a bolt of pain shot through him. “Fuck,” Mickey grunted and clutched at it.

“Shit. Sorry,” Ian apologized again. His hands fell to Mickey's hips.

“It's fine,” he assured him. It wasn’t but he couldn’t deal with Ian looking any guiltier than he already did.

They eyed each other for a sign of where to go from there. The brief interlude had made Mickey acutely aware that he’d gotten seriously drunk. He wanted Ian, he wanted him so fucking much, but he couldn’t make sound decisions in this state. It must have been written on his face because Ian wrapped his arms around him and rested his head against his collarbone. “Mick,” he groaned pitifully.

Mickey laid a kiss in his hair and held onto him; waiting for their heartbeats to slow.

When they unraveled themselves from one another and Mickey collapsed onto the bed with Ian beside him, Ian reached a hand out and squeezed his ass one last time.

Mickey rolled him away with a chuckle. “Just stay over there until we're sober.” 

“K,” Ian mumbled. He burrowed his head into the pillow and closed his eyes.

Mickey admired his features until he was sure the other man had fallen asleep. He couldn't resist brushing a strand of hair from his temple.

Ian's eyes popped open and Mickey laughed in surprise. “'Sorry, just bein' a fuckin' creep,” he joked.

A gentle smile played on Ian’s lips. He threaded his fingers in Mickey’s hair and leaned over to press a tender kiss to his mouth. When he lifted away, he hovered for a moment, his eyes voicing the words he didn’t dare say out loud, before he retreated back to his own side of the bed. 

Mickey watched him go, wanting nothing more than to pull him back. He didn’t and Ian’s eyelids fluttered closed shortly after. He was grateful for the tequila that helped him ignore his troubled spirit, turn off his swirling mind, and follow Ian into slumber. 

***

Mickey pried his eyes open the next morning and blinked at the too bright room. He was immediately aware he felt like shit: his body ached, his mouth felt like old paper, his head was throbbing, his stomach was churning and he had to piss. _What fucking time is it?_ he wondered, rubbing a palm down his face. He dropped his hand onto his chest and flinched when it landed on a hand that wasn’t his own. He stared at it in confusion for a moment before looking to his left and finding Ian fast asleep.

 _Fucking tequila_ , he cursed silently.

He needed to figure out what time it was. His phone was on the other side of the room and Ian’s shirt was covering the alarm clock on the bedside table. Lifting Ian’s hand gently, he placed it on the bed and reached to tug the shirt off the clock. His eyes bulged when he read it. It was quarter after twelve; they were supposed to be at the park at noon.

“Shit! Get the fuck up!” he yelled. Ian bolted upright. Mickey didn’t give him a chance to recover before he threw his shirt at him. “We’re late!” he exclaimed as he searched the bed for his own clothes. He spied the edge of his shirt under Ian’s ass.

“We’re late?” Ian asked groggily. “What time is it?”

“12:15! Get off my shit!”

That woke him up. “Fuck!” he swore and scrambled off the bed, pulling his shirt on as he went. He stumbled into the bathroom.

Mickey recovered his own shirt, forced himself to slow down enough to put it on carefully and then ran in behind the redhead. He lunged for his toothbrush and scrubbed at his teeth while Ian pissed into the toilet at an alarmingly slow rate. They switched positions when Ian finally finished. Mickey got his joggers down with one hand but was struggling with his underwear when Ian leaned over and yanked them down for him. Mickey frowned at him and he smiled around his toothbrush. “You’re welcome,” he sputtered.

They called a cab on their way out of the room and went to the front of the hotel to wait. It only took a few seconds of standing there with his adrenaline draining for Mickey to remember how terrible he felt. He leaned back against the building and closed his eyes.

“Hungover?” Ian asked him, not looking so great himself.

“My head is fuckin’ pounding,” he replied, picking the most troublesome of his many discomforts.

“I’m really queasy,” Ian complained and sat heavily on the curb with his head between his legs. “You think Coach will give us a break since we’re early all the time?”

“No.” A one word answer was all he had the energy for.

“Fuck. I’m sorry about the tequila,” he groaned.

“You didn’t force it down my throat.”

“Still.”

They didn’t say anything else while they waited for the cab. It was too hot, the sun was too bright and talking was too much effort. Besides, neither of them wer eager for the conversation to steer toward what had happened the night before. As okay as Mickey had been with their kiss at the field, this was different and he needed a chance to think before he spoke.

When the cab finally arrived, they settled in the back and Mickey looked across at Ian. His hair was an adorable fucking mess and he smiled. Without even thinking about it he reached out to smooth it down for him. Their eyes caught and Mickey cleared his throat before he took his hand back. Jesus. He couldn’t keep his goddamned hands, not to mention his tongue, off of Ian anymore.

The locker room was deserted when they arrived; their teammates had already gone out for batting practice. They changed into their gear and ascended the dugout steps in tandem.

“Triangles,” was all Coach Meacham said when he saw them stumble onto the field an hour late.

“Fuck me,” Mickey griped. Triangles meant running from home plate to the right field foul pole, across to the left field pole and back again in a minute and fifteen seconds. “How many?”

“Three.”

He might as well collapse and die now and save himself the trouble. Ian looked to be having the same thought but they pulled their sunglasses down over their eyes and hauled themselves to home plate anyway.

Mickey sprinted as fast as his ruined body would allow, pondering each of his recent life choices with every painstaking stride. Ian was a hopeless disaster somewhere behind him; there was no way he was making it in under a minute fifteen. He’d end up having to rerun it and there was nothing Mickey could do to help him out of this one.

By the time he reached home plate again, he was a sweaty, heaving, nearly puking heap of regret that had vowed to never, ever drink tequila again as long as he lived. Ian, still a couple hundred feet away, looked even worse off and that was saying something. Mickey chugged water despite his stomach wanting absolutely nothing to do with ingestion.

Their teammates had taken notice of their condition by that point and had started in with the jokes. None of them could compete with Mickey’s prowess for one-liners so their taunts didn’t strike home until someone yelled, “Did you two hook up last night?” just as Ian trotted up beside the second baseman and snatched his water bottle from his hands. Mickey ignored them but Ian spluttered which only got the men after them like dogs with a bone. Way to play it cool _Ian_. The players made exaggerated kissing sounds that had the pitcher flushing an even deeper shade of red than he’d already been from his exertion.

Mickey was starting to lose his fucking patience. “Let’s go,” he barked at Ian and took off to run his second triangle. It wasn’t even that his teammates were ragging on him, he could take it as well as he could dish it, it was that they were doing it to Ian that pissed him the fuck off. 

They labored through their remaining triangles; their teammates’ heckles buzzing in their ears. Coach took pity on them and didn’t make them repeat the ones they couldn’t do fast enough. When they finished, practice was already over and they were back in the clubhouse by two thirty to wait for the game to start at six. That was one sure thing about baseball, there was a lot of hurrying up to wait. They collapsed into reclining leather chairs to rest while the other players started up card games or clustered in the corner to lift weights. “Can’t you two just share one?” Butler joked as his walked past them.

Mickey glanced at Ian. “Ignore them,” he advised.

“I’m trying.”

“Look,” he said, gesturing towards the lockers. “Peralta’s changin’, you can just focus on that.”

“Good idea,” Ian goaded. He relaxed into his seat and pretended to be enjoying himself. They watched him in silence for a moment. “He does have a flat ass,” Ian observed.

“Yup. You can stop watchin’ him now.” 

“You too.”

They smiled at each other and then closed their eyes to wait out their intermission. 

***

When the time came, Ian and Mickey begrudgingly followed the other men out to the dugout. They took up similar positions on the bench, leaning against the wall behind them with their sunglasses lowered and their hands on their laps.

Their teammates didn’t stop with their bullshit once the game started. Mickey seriously doubted any of them actually thought that they were gay but it was a decent preview of how it would be if they did.

Butler sat beside Ian in the top of the first. “So now I get why you didn’t like The Fax,” he taunted. “You might like The Cock Pit though.” Ian snapped at him to fuck off. Despite his advice to ignore them, Mickey was having trouble doing so himself as he noticed Ian getting more and more agitated. 

He decided to fight fire with fire in an effort to get them off their case. His words were savage for any of his teammates that fucked up on the field.

“Way to get to the fuckin’ ball, Cinderella,” he yelled at Bowser when he returned to the dugout after missing a fly ball. 

“How’s your Japanese?” he snarked at Butler when he struck out.

“I could time your fastball with a fuckin’ calendar,” he told their pitcher when he’d had a shitty inning.

The endless barrage of insults tamed his teammates’ tongues, but it wasn’t winning him any friends. Their usual tolerance for Mickey’s mouth was starting to wane. Mickey didn’t give a fuck as long as they left Ian alone. 

He detected Ian slinking further down on the bench with each slight he hurled. He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin.

As soon as the half inning ended, Mickey grabbed his arm. “Come on,” he demanded and practically dragged him into the clubhouse. He pulled him into a storage closet that housed the random amenities that ballplayers might need during a game; pine tar, bat grip, glove rub and the like. The aroma in the small space was as quintessentially baseball as it was overwhelming.

“What’s wrong?” Mickey asked as soon as he’d shut the door.

“They’re getting pissed at you, Mickey.”

“I’d rather them be pissed at me then fucking with you.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, this is my fault.”

“Would you stop fuckin’ apologizing?” Mickey insisted.

“Sor-,” Ian started and stopped.

With their teammates on their cases and the bottom of the inning about to start, they only had a moment. Mickey did the one thing he could think of that would calm Ian’s stress in the amount of time they had. He wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him in for a hug. It wasn’t until Ian’s arms were around him too that he realized he’d needed it just as much.

“Fuck ‘em, ok?” Mickey said into his shoulder. 

Ian nodded and they left. Mickey dialed it down a few notches for the rest of the game and their teammates wisely left them more or less alone; Mickey’s unyielding glare helping them to remember themselves.

In the locker room after the game, it was Fowler that finally bore the brunt of Mickey’s frustration. Ian’s locker was beside Fowler’s and Mickey’s was a few down the row. As they changed, the catcher quipped, “Was Mickey on the DL today because of his wrist or because you ripped his asshole to shreds?”

Mickey saw Ian’s face drop and he lost it. He charged Fowler, fisted the front of his shirt and shoved him hard into the wall of his locker. “Really asshole? _You’re_ gonna say that shit?” he hissed.

The chatter in the room stopped and all eyes were on them. Fowler looked fucking terrified and Mickey savored it. He hadn’t had his hands on someone like this for far too long and he couldn’t think of anyone more deserving. He tightened his grip and put even more pressure on his chest.

Ian was beside him then, with his hand on his arm. “Let him go, Mick,” he implored. Mickey looked at him and saw fear in his eyes too. The last place he wanted to see it.

He let Fowler go, stuffed his shit in his bag and stormed out. Ian trailed behind him. “Go back,” Mickey ordered. “I’ll see you at the hotel.” Ian stopped in his tracks and watched him leave.

***

A sullen Ian entered their hotel room a half an hour later. He didn’t speak right away, just sat on the edge of Mickey’s bed and picked at a loose thread in the comforter.

“How’s your wrist?” he finally asked, opting to avoid the elephant in the room for the moment.

“It’s okay.”

Ian nodded and the silence stretched. “Well, today was a clusterfuck,” he muttered uncomfortably.

Mickey sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. He scooted across the bed and sat next to him. “If we’d been playin’ today we woulda been screwed.”

“I know.”

“We need to cool it the fuck down.”

“I know,” he reiterated. “But I don’t want to stop hanging out with you.”

“We don’t gotta stop, but no more weed, no more tequila, no more… fuckin’ around,” he said. “And I mean it this time.”

“Mickey,” he said forlornly, “I don’t know if I can just be your friend.” 

“You’re gonna have to try.” It wasn’t what Mickey wanted either, but he’d known Ian for less than two weeks, he’d been chasing his baseball dreams for as long as he could remember. It was no contest because it made no fucking sense for there to even be a contest. 

"I _have_ tried."

God knew Mickey had tried too. Ian just happened to be everything he hadn't known he wanted. "We gotta try harder."

“I will,” Ian promised.

“Good, now get off my bed,” he teased. “You haven’t even touched yours since we got here.”

He gave Mickey a tight smile, too miserable for their usual banter, and crossed the room. Mickey’s bed felt almost as lonely without him as his heart did.


	9. Chapter 9

An ear-splitting scream jolted Mickey from sleep. Disoriented and heart thundering, he scrambled to his feet and scanned the space for signs of danger. Ian wasn’t in his bed; there was no light on in the bathroom. There was another shriek and he realized it was coming from the hall. He dashed across the floor and yanked the hotel door open. Hands seized him and pulled him further from his room; the door clicked shut behind him. He was released as quickly as he’d been grabbed and men were hurrying away.

The screech transformed into cackling and Mickey watched the backs of three of his teammates retreat down the hallway. He spun around to try the door but it stayed stubbornly closed no matter how hard he tugged at the handle. “Cocksuckers!” he called after the men before they were out of sight.

Mickey looked down at himself, naked except for his underwear, and sighed. Where the fuck was Ian? At least the hall was empty for the moment. He leaned against the wall, crossed his arms and settled in to wait. If Ian didn’t show up in a few minutes he’d have no choice but to head down to the lobby for a new key.

As pissed as he was at his dickhead teammates, he knew this was their way of telling him that yesterday was water under the bridge. Pranks were their love language; baseball’s time-honored method of relieving conflict in the locker room. He’d still like to throat punch all three of them though.

An elderly couple turned the corner and approached from the end of the hall. Mickey mustered a brittle smile for them as they hurried past with matching uneasy expressions. When they were gone, he leaned his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, willing Ian to come the fuck on. He stood there for another five minutes, but with no redheaded savior in sight, finally lifted from the wall and started for the bank of elevators. The one nearest to him dinged open when he arrived, revealing the very man he’d been trying to summon.

Ian squinted at him as he stepped off the elevator. “Are you sleep walking?”

“No, I'm not sleepwalking,” he sighed.

“But you know you don’t have clothes on, right?”

Mickey rubbed at his forehead. “Yeah?” he asked. “I guess that explains the geezers risking their hips to try and get the fuck away from me.” He motioned down the hall. “Can you let me back in the room, please?”

“What happened?” Ian pried as they turned down the hall.

“Asshole teammates with a death wish, that’s what.”

Ian stifled a laugh. “Those bastards,” he offered in solidarity. Mickey rolled his eyes at the sham sincerity. “Who was it?”

“Bowser, Williams and Butler.”

“Shit. Bowser asked me where you were at breakfast and I told him you were still sleeping.”

“You went for breakfast already?” he asked, surprised Ian hadn’t waited for him.

Ian unlocked and pushed open the door to their room. “Uh-huh.”

Mickey felt a twinge of disappointment. “Any of the guys give you a hard time about yesterday?”

“No one said anything.”

“Good.” It was what he’d expected. Their teammates hadn’t been trying to be malicious, they just hadn’t known how close to home they were hitting.

Mickey went for his bag to dig out clothes while Ian climbed onto his bed with his tablet and stuck in some earbuds. As Mickey was tugging on his pants, it occurred to him that Ian hadn’t so much as glanced at his ass. When he was dressed and heading out the door in search of food, Ian gave a small wave to acknowledge he was leaving.

“You think you’ll play today?” Ian asked him when he returned.

“I’ll see how batting practice goes.” His wrist hadn’t given him any trouble so far that morning. “Want to head over to the park in half an hour?”

“I was thinking I'd just catch the bus with the team.”

Mickey blinked. “Okay,” he said slowly.

“I told Melendez I would,” he continued.

“Yeah, no worries,” Mickey replied with an indifference he didn’t feel.

Mickey's gut sank as he watched Ian return his focus to his tablet. He wanted to ask him if everything was okay, but he already knew it wasn’t. There was nothing he could do to make it better so he made himself a coffee and drank it in the heavy silence, biding his time until he could head to the field and think.

***

Mickey leaned against the backstop at PNC Field, staring across the expanse of green, but seeing nothing. The morning had been strange and now everything felt off without Ian there. In such a short time, the pitcher’s presence had become as much a part of his routine as the cigarette between his fingers; the cigarette that he’d let burn down to a nub while lost in thought. He was able to get one last drag from it before he decided to head back inside.

He walked through the locker room while he waited for his teammates to arrive. When he passed Ian’s locker he stopped. His uniform hung there, GALLAGHER spelt out in scarlet red on the back. He resisted the urge to run his fingers over it and sat in a nearby chair instead. He stared at the ceiling, not moving until he eventually heard the boisterous clamor of the other Bisons in the hall. He stood by his locker and watched them stream in. When Ian’s form breached the door, their eyes briefly met and Ian offered up a thin lipped smile before he looked away. Mickey wanted to tear his hair out. 

His eyes flitted to Ian every few seconds as the players changed into their practice gear. He didn’t catch him looking his way even once. When Bowser approached Mickey and spoke, his voice faded into the background hum of everything else in the locker room that wasn’t Ian.

“What?” Mickey asked distractedly when Bowser stepped between him and the object of his focus.

“I said, I guess you didn’t get arrested for indecent exposure.”

Mickey squinted at him. This morning’s events were so far from his mind, he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. “Yeah, guess not,” he said in hopes that that would be enough to get him to leave.

“That’s it? I thought by now you’d have told me ten different ways you were gonna shove my dick down my throat,” he said, laughing. “You’re going soft, Milkovich.”

 _Fucking tell me about it_ , he thought. Bowser moved his bulk out of Mickey’s line of sight and Ian _still_ wasn’t looking at him.

After practice, Ian sat quietly in the locker room and reviewed video until the game started. With no better way to pass the time, Mickey worked out with his teammates.

As they changed into their game uniforms, his rational mind told him to stop obsessing over everything his _friend_ was doing. If Ian needed his space today that was fine… but did he really need _so_ much? Even his jockstrap clad ass failed to pull Ian's eyes.

The game went on like that, with Mickey paying more attention to what Ian was doing than anything else. In the top of the seventh, after his teammates had to remind him that he needed to make his way to the on-deck circle, he decided Ian had had enough space for one day. He sat by him when he returned to the dugout after his at bat.

“How’s it goin’?” he asked, for lack of anything better to say.

“Good.”

They both kept their eyes on the field. “You okay?” Mickey finally inquired.

“Yeah.”

“You ready for your start tomorrow?”

“Getting there.”

This was like pulling teeth. Mickey scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed. He stared at Ian until the redhead looked back. “What?” he asked at Mickey's annoyed expression.

“You're bein' really fuckin' distracting,” he complained.

Ian squinted at him. “I'm just sitting here.”

“Come with me,” Mickey ordered and got to his feet. Ian eyed him warily but followed. Mickey led him to the same small storage closet they had hugged in the day before and shut them inside.

“You gotta stop it!” he demanded of the redhead.

“Stop what?!”

Faced with the question, Mickey wasn't sure how to answer without sounding like a whiny bitch. He just wanted Ian to act like Ian and pay some fucking attention to him.

“Just... be normal!” There was no way to say it without sounding pathetic.

Ian's expression softened with understanding. “I'm trying to give you space.”

“Give _me_ space? I don't want space!”

“You don't understand! I don't know how to be around you and not-,” he stopped himself and shook his head in frustration. “I don't know what else to do!”

“No, I do understand!” Of course he did. Even now, just standing in the tight space with Ian was fucking intoxicating; the heat of his body so near, his chest heaving from the intensity of their whispered argument, his mouth so close and tempting. “But I-,” He was about to tell him that he had missed him all fucking day but the words caught in his throat. Ian was standing right in front of him, how could he miss him?

“Mickey, what?” Ian whispered. He stepped almost imperceptibly closer and Mickey's stomach fluttered.

“Just...” He couldn't form a goddamn sentence. He let his gaze drop to Ian's lips and suddenly Ian's hands were on his hips and Mickey's fingers were in his hair and their breaths were mingling in the inches between them; any semblance of reason abandoned. Their mouths met with an urgency that had them crashing into the shelving behind Mickey, their bodies pressed together by the force. It lasted a few seconds before Mickey sucked in a sharp breath and broke away. “Stop kissing me!” he hissed against Ian's lips.

Ian's wild eyes searched his. “Stop kissing me back!” he countered.

And then Mickey was welcoming his tongue again, pulling him closer even as his rational mind screamed to push him the fuck away. He clawed at Ian's hair and Ian's hands found their way to his ass to tug their groins flush and deepen their kiss further. They forgot who and where they were and how much time they had until someone in the dugout yelled “Mickey, where the hell are you?!” and they jumped apart in fright. 

“Fuck!” Mickey swore. “Wait here a minute before you come out,” he instructed and then he was out the door, rushing to the dugout to grab his cap and glove. He mumbled, “Sorry Coach,” in the direction of the irritated man before he trotted out to join his teammates on the field.

He got into position on shaky legs with his heart pounding painfully in his throat. The half inning passed in such a blur he couldn’t have recounted anything that happened; he was just thankful the ball never came his way. Between pitches, he’d seen Ian return to the dugout and sit on the bench with his head in his hands; by the time the Bisons came off the field, he hadn’t moved. Mickey stood at the dugout railing and pretended to watch the top of the eighth while he unraveled.

He didn't recognize himself anymore. Who was this Mickey that couldn't get a guy out of his head, who kissed teammates in clubhouse closets, who didn't have enough discipline to focus on his game? He snatched sunflower seeds from Melendez and stuffed them in his mouth in an attempt to rid his tongue of the guilty taste of Ian, then cursed himself when he was disappointed it was gone. Yesterday's bruise on his back, throbbing from his collision with the shelving, continued to serve as a reminder anyway.

The remainder of the game went by quickly. No further runs were scored and the Bisons lost. Mickey didn’t give a shit, he just wanted to get the fuck out of there.

Their kiss, at least, had cured him of his inability to keep his eyes off Ian; he changed and showered without looking at the man. He was out the door and in their hotel room, pacing like a caged animal, before most of the players had left the locker room.

Ian snuck in shortly after, having taken a cab himself, and sat on the foot of the nearest bed, examining his hands in his lap.

Mickey stopped in front of him. “We can't kiss in the fucking clubhouse, Ian!” he exclaimed. They didn’t have weed or tequila to blame for their indiscretion this time, only their own immeasurable stupidity.

“No kidding, Mickey,” he sighed.

“We can’t kiss at all!”

Ian rolled his eyes at him and lay back on the bed with his hands in his hair. He looked hot as fuck and Mickey wanted to crawl up his chest and taste him again. If his body wasn’t betraying him then his fucking thoughts were. He continued his pacing. “We need to get laid. That’s gotta fuckin’ help, right?” he reasoned.

“Oh, Jesus,” Ian muttered.

Mickey latched on to the idea. “No, it makes sense! We get laid and then maybe we can start thinkin’ with the heads on our fuckin' shoulders for a change.”

“I hate everything about what you’re saying,” Ian groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes.

Mickey chewed his lip. He wasn’t sure he didn’t hate it either but he told himself he was being pragmatic; if they couldn't be together they'd end up with other people anyway. It’d be like ripping off a band-aid. He needed Ian out of his system before everything they’d both worked for crumbled to dust. He was protecting them both.

“There’s a club twenty minutes from here.”

“I have a shit load more review to do.”

“Review? All you've been doin' all day is review!”

“I've been staring at the screen a lot. Not sure I've actually absorbed anything,” he said meaningfully.

“I’m going with or without you.”

Ian sat up. “Mickey, this is so fucking stupid! Hooking up with some random guy isn’t going to change anything. This isn't even about sex!”

His words fell on deaf ears. “I'm doin’ this. Are you in or out?” Mickey insisted as he grabbed his phone to call the cab.

Ian stood up and nabbed the phone from Mickey's hand. He pulled him close by the waist. “Mickey,” he said calmly, “you’re panicking. You need to think about this. You really want me to go fuck someone else tonight?” 

The fact that the very thought made him sick was evidence enough that this had all gotten out of hand. “Yes,” he replied definitively, being sure to look Ian in the eye as he said it. He picked the redhead’s hands off him and removed the phone from his grasp. 

Ian let out a long suffering sigh and, resigned to his fate, changed out of his joggers and into jeans. He eyed Mickey up and down as the brunet punched their info into his phone. “You wearing that?” he inquired.

“What’s wrong with this?” Mickey had on a dark heather gray tee and slim fit jeans. He thought he looked decent.

“Have you seen your ass in those jeans? I won’t stand a chance.”

“Fuck off. Your bulge is practically x-rated and don’t get me started on how tight that fuckin' shirt is. You’ll do just fine.”

Their eyes lingered on each other until Mickey cleared his throat. “We should wait outside.”

Ian exhaled heavily and made an effort to stop the madness one more time. “Mickey, why don’t we just stay here and talk?”

Mickey ignored him and stopped at his suitcase to pull on a leather scooter jacket. “Supposed to be chilly tonight,” he reminded his roommate.

Ian looked like he wanted to pounce. “For fuck’s sake, Mickey,” he groused and tugged at the front of the jacket. He let go and grabbed a hoodie off his bed.

Mickey left the room with a reluctant Ian trailing behind.

***

The bar was in an up-and-coming neighborhood just outside the urban center. It wasn’t a gay bar, Mickey avoided them at all costs, but it attracted enough gay men to make it a worthwhile spot to find a hook up. The clientele were a little highbrow for Mickey’s taste, but he wasn’t there to talk to anyone anyway. 

The bartender smiled broadly when he looked up from cleaning glasses and saw Ian. “What can I get you?” he asked. The quick once over he gave the redhead had Mickey’s gaydar going off like a fucking siren. 

“Two Old Styles,” he requested.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” the bartender observed.

“We’re just in town for a couple days.”

“You here on business?”

“Uh, yeah, you could say that,” Ian replied politely.

“What sort of-,” the bartender began.

“Yo, wind-bag, the beers ain't gonna get themselves,” Mickey interrupted.

Ian gave him a reproachful look and Mickey raised his eyebrows at him in response. The bartender fucked off to get the beer so mission accomplished.

“You interested in that loser?” Mickey asked.

“The bartender? I don’t think he’s gay.”

“Christ,” Mickey swore, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you’re a virgin aren’t you?”

Ian grinned. “Not even close.”

“I find that really fuckin’ hard to believe.”

“I can prove it to you if you want,” he offered with a wicked smirk.

“I do. That’s why we’re here, remember?”

Ian laughed. “He’s just being nice, Mickey.”

“Yes, Ian, that’s how people get other people to have sex with them.” 

The bartender returned with their beers and handed them over with a flirtatious smile that Mickey considered punching off his face. He needed to cool it. Besides, the guy wasn’t even in Ian’s league; he had a soul patch for fuck’s sake. Who had a soul patch anymore?

They leaned their backs against the bar and surveyed the crowd. 

“So, have you realized this is fucking ridiculous yet?” Ian wondered.

“Nope.” In all honesty, his fight or flight mode had been tempered a little during the cab ride over. He’d been re-evaluating his plan since before they’d walked in but he still needed to feel like he had some control over his life. There was a chance this could work.

“Okay,” Ian said, like he had no doubt Mickey would come to his senses soon. “What kind of guy do you usually go for?”

“I don’t know, man,” Mickey muttered. It was weird talking to Ian about this.

“That guy’s hot,” he said nodding towards a Latino in a white shirt. 

“The Mexican dude?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah, I guess he could be Mexican.”

He was all caramel skin, dark eyes, lean muscle and sexy lips; somebody Mickey wouldn’t have hesitated to pull into a back alley a few weeks ago. Now, his only thought was that he wanted to keep the guy the fuck away from Ian. “Dibs,” he said quickly.

“You can’t call dibs, I saw him first,” Ian protested.

“I already did.” 

“Fuck you!”

“You can have the guy who’s tryin’ to chat up my Mexican right now,” Mickey appeased.

“Really, him?” Ian scrunched up his face.

“Yeah, why not?” The guy was okay looking even if he had too much hair and his eyebrows were in need of a fucking hedge trimmer.

“He looks like a douche.”

He definitely looked like a douche but Mickey wasn’t going to tell Ian that. “He’s good enough for a quick fuck in a bathroom stall.”

“Fine,” he huffed.

“Come on,” Mickey insisted. He drained his beer, set the empty on the bar and began to weave through the other patrons until he reached his mark. He fixed the Latino with a smoldering look and cocked an eyebrow. The douche was promptly forgotten as the Mexican turned to Mickey. “Hey,” he said with a sultry accent.

“Hey,” the second baseman gestured toward the bathrooms, “you wanna…?”

The Mexican leered, “Let’s go.”

“Seriously?” Ian groused as the douche whined, “Hey!” Even his voice was douchey. The guy was trading up big time so Mickey didn’t know what the fuck there was for him to complain about.

Mickey followed behind the Mexican without sparing Ian another glance. He couldn’t look at him.

***

The Mexican had hands on Mickey the moment they entered the bathroom stall. He shoved him up against the back of the door and ground his crotch into him. Mickey fought the powerful urge to grab the Latino’s wrists and yank them the fuck off. The guy was indisputably good looking but now that they were hot and heavy in the bathroom, Mickey couldn’t help but think the Mexican’s eyes were too dark, his hair was dull and his lips were a little repulsive. The Latino tried to press his mouth against Mickey’s and he dodged it like the guy had the plague. 

“Want me to suck your cock first?” he asked.

 _Fuck no_ , Mickey thought but didn't say. This guy was willing to suck his dick entirely free of complications and he was about to refuse? As he tried to convince himself that he should want this, the Mexican took his lack of response as an affirmative. He dropped to his knees and made short work of unbuckling Mickey's belt. His hands slid up his thighs and over his bulge before working his zipper down and tugging at the waistband of his underwear. It was taking everything Mickey had in him not to kick the fucker across the stall. There was no way this was happening.

He grabbed his underwear to stop the guy from pulling them down further just as he heard the door of the stall beside them clang shut and Douchebag say “So, how do you wanna do this?”

Like _fuck_. He twisted out of the Mexican’s grasp, did up his pants and whipped open the stall door behind him. He banged on the neighboring stall until the door opened. Fucking Douchebag was there with a smirking Ian standing behind him. Mickey grabbed the douche by the shirt, wrenched him out and stepped inside the stall with Ian. He heard Douchebag whine another ‘Hey!’ before he closed the door in his face.

“Oh hi, Mickey,” Ian greeted with a smug smile. He leaned towards the brunet. “Where’s your _date_?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey groused.

“Make me,” he teased devilishly.

“Ian,” Mickey warned.

Ian crept a little closer. “Stop being a fucking idiot,” he said before his palms were on Mickey’s face and he caught his lips with his own, his mouth firm and unhurried against the brunet’s. The overwhelming thought in Mickey’s mind was how right it felt, not like he knew it would have been if he’d kissed the Mexican. The familiar flavor of Ian under the beer they’d drunk was cathartic in a way he didn’t expect after his reaction to their earlier kiss.

Out of habit, he put up a feeble fight. “I told you, you gotta stop kissin’ me,” he scolded gently.

“I will when you stop kissing me back.” They smiled their way into another lingering kiss, Mickey’s resolve disintegrating further with every second that passed.

When Ian sprinkled soft kisses across his jaw and down his neck, Mickey squirmed. “You do the weirdest shit to my stomach, man,” he muttered.

Ian’s mouth curved into a smile against his skin; he lifted his head and crinkled his nose. “Are you trying to say I give you butterflies?”

“I'm gay but I'm not that fuckin’ gay,” Mickey scoffed at the grinning fool.

“You give me butterflies too,” Ian tormented.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Remind me why I like you so much?”

Ian’s grin grew wider. “You like me so much?”

“How did I not notice how annoying you are until tonight?”

“You must have been distracted by the butterflies.”

Mickey laughed. “How the fuck did I end up in here with you?”

“You’re always gonna end up with me, Mick,” Ian hummed.

They gazed at each other and let the weight of that declaration hang in the air between them.

Then someone grunted, a toilet flushed and they remembered where they were. “Can we go back to the hotel now?” Ian pleaded and Mickey was happy to oblige.

As soon as they’d cleared the stall, the door to the bathroom was abruptly pushed open by the weight of bodies crashing into it. A breathless obese man backed into the room with an enthusiastic Douchebag attached to his neck. “I want you to worship me, baby,” the smaller man panted as he piloted them towards the wheelchair accessible stall. They shuffled in awkwardly and swung the door closed behind themselves; the sounds of belts unbuckling and zippers opening filled the small space.

The teammates wore identical wide eyed expressions while they made a hasty exit.

They passed a smoke between them while they waited for a cab. “So, my place or yours?” Ian quipped, earning a tired smirk from Mickey. “You okay?” he asked him.

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed, “I’m just trying to figure out what the fuck to do with you.”

“I have some suggestions,” Ian said with a quirk of an eyebrow.

“I bet you do,” Mickey chuckled, “but tonight we’re talkin' about this fuckin’ mess we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

“K,” Ian agreed, and he put his arms around Mickey’s shoulders and kissed his temple before he squeezed him tight. 

***

At the hotel, the men undressed and Mickey slipped under the covers of his bed while Ian brushed his teeth in the bathroom. The pitcher flicked off the light when he came out and Mickey expected him to cross the room but he felt the dip of his weight on his own mattress instead. He looked over his shoulder to catch the redhead’s eye but he didn’t complain. He flipped over and shifted onto his side as Ian settled under the covers beside him.

Their eyes followed Ian’s finger as it traced the U-UP tattoo on the hand that rested between them; both of them contemplating the impossible situation they found themselves in.

Their eyes met when his finger paused over the U on Mickey’s pointer. “We can have both,” Ian said softly, “Baseball. Us. If we’re careful.”

“It’s not just about the guys finding out.”

“I know,” he sighed, “you don’t want the distraction. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been pretty distracted anyway,” he pointed out. “You think it’d be better if we’re sleeping with other people? ‘Cause I don’t.” Mickey squeezed his eyes shut at the thought. Ian waited for him to respond and when he didn’t, he pleaded softly, “Mick, you need to speak.”

“If you fuck someone else I will kill them and then probably you too.”

Ian barked a laugh at the unexpected yet somehow endearing threat. “Were you gonna fuck that Mexican tonight?”

“No.”

Ian smiled. “I knew you wouldn't go through with it.”

“I was about to leave when you came in.” He bit his lip. “Were you gonna fuck that douche?”

Ian laughed. “Fuck, no. I do have standards. I just figured you could use some motivation to come back to your senses.”

“I lost my shit today,” he admitted.

Ian shrugged a shoulder. “It happens.” 

“You would know,” Mickey teased.

Ian gripped Mickey’s hand under his own and leaned over him so he could lift it to his hair. Mickey rolled to his back and Ian smiled down at him fondly. He dropped his hand to the side of his neck and stroked the skin beneath his thumb. 

“Missed you today,” Mickey felt compelled to confess, his fingers still tangled in red hair, right where they belonged. 

Ian lowered himself a little more until Mickey felt his breath fan across his mouth. “I missed you too,” he whispered. “You know,” he continued, “I probably wouldn’t kiss you in closets if I could kiss you here.” He grinned loudly and Mickey lifted up enough to kiss the ridiculousness off his face. Their lips moved against each other like they’d done this dance a thousand times before. 

“You plannin’ on goin’ back to your own bed?” he asked when the redhead’s mouth had been sufficiently tamed.

“Want me to?”

“No,” he replied without hesitation.

“Then no.” He draped an arm over Mickey’s waist and rested his head on the pillow. Mickey slid his hand up Ian’s arm and left it there. “So, where do we go from here?” Ian asked after awhile. Mickey turned in his hold, shifting onto his side so he could face him again. Ian gazed at him tenderly and rubbed circles into his lower back. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Mick,” he promised, “just please stop fighting this.”

“And what if I said I need to wait until the off-season?” After all, what was the point in fighting it? He’d been fighting it, tooth and nail. After tonight it was more obvious than ever that being with Ian wasn’t a choice, it was just a matter of time. 

“Two and a half months?”

“Yeah.”

“I'd say you're underestimating how much you need my dick up your ass,” he replied seriously.

Mickey chuckled at the relentless redhead. “You still don't even know if I take it,” he pointed out.

“You do,” Ian said simply.

“Oh, yeah? What makes you so sure?”

Ian paused to study him earnestly. “Because you're perfect for me,” he reasoned softly.

Mickey waited a breath before he pulled him in for another slow kiss, trying to convey a similar sentiment with the very lips he knew were not yet brave enough to form the words. Ian kissed him back, thoroughly, lovingly, like his kiss could take away all the worry and fear that troubled them. Maybe it could, for a time, because for those hundred heartbeats or so there were no consequences, no hard decisions, nothing but possibilities for a future better than either of them could have envisioned.

He pressed Mickey onto his back and relinquished his lips. “Now go the fuck to sleep,” he ordered playfully and pecked him one last time, “I have to pitch tomorrow and you’re really distracting.”

Mickey smiled. Wrapped in Ian’s warmth, his senses filled with the man’s presence, he tried to remember a time he’d felt more content. After a day like today, the significance of that wasn’t lost on him. With that on his mind, and Ian’s nose nuzzled sweetly in the crook of his neck, he let his stress melt away, if only for the night.


	10. Chapter 10

Ian’s subconscious had him burrowing further into Mickey’s warmth and scent all night long; his arm around his waist, his chest pressed against his back, his nose tucked snugly in his hair. Sometime before sunrise Mickey was suddenly gone and Ian grappled to keep him close to no avail. He opened his eyes to a thump and a curse and Mickey on the floor.

Ian peeked over the edge of the bed guiltily. “You okay?” he asked. Mickey rubbed at his eyes and peered blearily up at him.

“Yeah,” he grumbled as he got to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom to piss.

Ian retreated to the other side of the bed to give him plenty of room when he got back. He worried that his overzealous cuddling might keep him out of his reach for the rest of the night, but when he returned, the brunet scooted close, draped his arm over Ian’s chest and laid his chin on his shoulder. “Sorry,” Ian whispered and dropped a kiss on his forehead.

“S’ok,” Mickey mumbled and closed his eyes.

Ian smiled at the disheveled charm of the sleepy man. He turned a little so he could peck his nose, his cheek, his lips, his forehead again, his eyelid.

Mickey scrunched his face and squinted at him.

“Sorry,” Ian repeated and Mickey relaxed back into the pillow. Ian restrained his lips as he watched the brunet settle into slumber. He looked so different at rest; so soft with his brows tranquil and his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks. Ian was sure he’d never seen anything more lovely. When Mickey’s breathing slowed, he lifted his thumb to brush a caress across his jaw.

“Ian,” Mickey sighed without opening his eyes.

Ian retracted his hand. “Sorry,” he repeated for the third time. He just couldn’t help himself. Without knowing exactly what the morning would bring he wanted to savor the man while he still had him so near. He settled for gazing at him in the soft light that filtered in from the street outside.

If he had to guess, he’d say they had an hour or two before they would need to get up. The team was traveling back to Pawtucket today; a four and a half hour trip. The buses were leaving early, but not ridiculously so.

He hoped the progress that he and Mickey had made yesterday wouldn’t be lost with the rising sun. If he had to go back to not kissing or touching him again he didn’t know how he’d cope. He’d meant it when he said he’d do whatever Mickey needed though and if waiting was what let them be together in the end then he’d find a way to survive.

He drifted off eventually. When he next woke, he found that they’d shifted positions while they’d slept. He’d turned on his side and they were facing each other so when he opened his eyes he was greeted by ocean blue ones.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” Mickey replied.

“I’d ask you if you slept okay but…”

Mickey’s mouth arched into a gentle smile. “Nah, I did,” he assured him.

Ian glanced at the curtained window and noticed the sun peeking through the panels. “We need to get up,” he sighed.

“But not yet,” Mickey cooed. When Ian looked back at him he found a glint in the brunet’s eye that lit a fire in his belly.

“Not yet,” he agreed breathlessly.

Mickey ran a hand up his chest and onto his neck; all the invitation Ian needed to draw closer. Morning breath be damned, if Mickey was willing, there was nothing that would keep him from that mouth.

He sealed their lips together in a tentative kiss that Mickey promptly intensified. His tongue slid into Ian’s mouth, so hot and sure, it had the redhead digging his fingers into the man’s back. He caught up quickly, matching the pace that Mickey set. He broke away for a moment to take a breath and Mickey took the opportunity to pull at his hair and expose his throat. He latched on, all teeth and wet heat that wasn’t helping Ian breathe any easier.

“What’s gotten into you?” he wondered between muted groans.

“You’re always so goddamned sexy in the morning,” Mickey praised between tastes.

Those words, from this man, in that voice; it was a miracle Ian didn’t bust a nut. “Jeeeesus,” he muttered shakily.

Mickey’s hand slipped from his hair, down his chest and to his back. It didn’t stop its blistering descent until he’d snuck it under the band of Ian’s underwear and was kneading at the flesh of his ass. Ian fisted Mickey’s hair and pulled him off his neck so he could reconnect their mouths; their tongues met before their lips did. Mickey grinned into the dirty kiss as Ian rolled him to his back, settling on top of him with their legs tangled. He was working his way between his legs when a loud knock at their door had the men scrambling apart.

“It's Jorge!" their teammate called cheerfully.

Ian scampered off the bed and struggled into the jeans he'd been wearing the night before while Mickey sat up and watched his roommate flounder. Ian looked down to assess how obvious his boner was before he yanked the door open to a chipper Melendez holding a familiar baseball key-chain.

“Hey,” he croaked, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure Melendez could feel it vibrating through the air.

“Morning,” said Melendez. He shuffled into the room and pushed the keys into Ian's hand, “I’m on my way to breakfast. I found these on the floor in the hall.”

Ian smiled weakly at his teammate, “Uh, shit. Thanks.” They must have fallen out of the pocket of the hoodie he'd worn the night before.

Melendez took in Ian's mussed up hair and the brunet still tucked in bed. “Did I wake you guys?”

Ian patted at his hair in a feeble attempt to tame the wild spikes. “Yeah,” he laughed nervously, “it's okay, time to get up anyway.”

“Buses leave in less than forty minutes,” Melendez warned. “If you want to eat you better hurry.” He paused and looked curiously around the room. “Did you two sleep in the same bed?”

Ian’s eyes widened for a millisecond before he adopted his best bewildered expression. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “What? No,” he replied in a pitch that he hadn’t hit since before puberty.

Melendez gestured to Ian’s bed, still perfectly made to hotel standards. “That one hasn’t been slept in.”

“Oh, yeah!” Now Ian sounded too loud. “No, I made it when I got up,” he said dismissively. Seeing the skeptical look on Melendez's face he continued. “It's a weird habit I have. Like a… a compulsion, I guess?” he finished, scratching at the back of his neck.

Mickey snorted and Ian pointedly ignored him.

“You don't do that at the apartment,” Melendez argued.

“It's a hotel thing.”

“And you just said I woke you up.”

“I meant you woke Mickey up. I was up,” he cleared his throat, “making the bed.” He shot a glare at his roommate who was barely abstaining from busting a gut. “Why would we sleep together?” he asked, feigning bemusement. “That’s fucked up.”

After a pregnant pause, Melendez mercifully relented. “Okay,” he said, though he didn’t seem convinced.

“We’ll be down in a bit,” Ian told him, hoping he would get the hint and get the fuck out. 

“I’ll see you down there,” he said as he turned to go. He eyed them both suspiciously for a few more seconds before he left.

As the door closed behind the third baseman, Ian sat heavily on his bed, tilted his face at the ceiling and sighed. When he glanced over at Mickey, the brunet's shoulders were quaking with silent laughter.

“Thanks for the help, asshole,” Ian groused. He wiggled a pillow from beneath the covers and chucked it hard at Mickey's head.

“But you were doin’ great,” Mickey tormented as he caught it.

Ian grew serious for a moment. “You worried about him?”

Mickey shrugged. “Nah. It’s Melendez. He couldn’t put two and two together if you told him the answer was four.”

Ian rose and padded across the floor to Mickey’s bed. “In that case, where were we?” he asked, tugging Mickey’s blanket down. 

The brunet grinned up at him. “We were gettin’ up, weren’t we?”

Ian shook his head as he crawled over Mickey’s legs. “Nuh-uh, I’m pretty sure we were gettin’ down.”

Mickey huffed at the play on words but allowed himself to be dragged flat on his back. “We really do gotta get up though,” he reminded his roommate.

Ian sat back on his haunches. “At least let me grope you a little first,” he appealed, “so I don’t murder Melendez later.” Mickey chuckled, stuffed the pillow in the redhead’s face and tried to roll away. Ian tossed the pillow to the floor and boxed him in. “A man’s life is in danger, Mickey,” he said gravely as he hovered over him.

Mickey’s arms shot up around his neck and he flipped him onto the bed. Ian laughed even as the air rushed from his lungs. Mickey straddled him and smirked. “Alright, go for it,” he relented now that he’d gained the upper hand.

Ian wasted no time cupping his ass and Mickey leaned over, rested his elbows on the mattress and laced his fingers in red hair. He laid kisses below Ian’s ear that had the redhead practically purring. Ian’s eyes pinched shut when Mickey leisurely ground his crotch against his own. He wished he’d taken his jeans off so Mickey could feel exactly how hard it made him. He tightened his grip on Mickey and tried to persuade him to keep doing it by pressing him closer. 

He nosed at Mickey’s temple to encourage him to lift his head. When he obliged, Ian sacrificed a hand to pull him down to his lips. His other hand dove beneath the elastic of his underwear and he finally, fucking _finally_ , got his first contact with the perfection that was Mickey’s bare ass. He fondled it with the adoration it deserved and couldn’t contain the deep moans that reverberated in his throat as a result. They had Mickey’s tongue quivering against his own with the chuckle they prompted. Mickey backed his lips off enough to grin down at him.

“You have no idea how much I want you,” Ian growled into the humid air between their mouths.

“Real eager to lose your virginity?” Mickey sassed. 

“Deflower me, baby,” Ian teased; laughing at himself before he even got the words out. 

Mickey tucked his face in Ian’s neck and shook with his own laughter. “You’re such a fuckin’ dork,” he lamented. “No wonder you’ve never gotten laid.”

“I was just waiting for you,” Ian concluded. Strangely, a big part of him wished he really had. He felt the flutter of Mickey’s lips as he started laying down soft kisses. “So is this a thing we do now?” Ian queried hopefully. “Making out in the morning? Feeling each other up?”

Mickey’s mouth paused against his skin. “Maybe,” he mumbled and went back to his ministrations.

“Maybe?” Ian whimpered.

“I don’t know,” he admitted and lifted his head, “but I’m tryin’ to get used to the idea.” 

“I just want to know if I can still kiss you when we get back from the game, or tomorrow, or the day after that.”

Mickey held Ian’s gaze, his eyes soft, the strain of their predicament writ plain on his features. He sighed and sat up. “We should talk about this later, we need to get goin’,” he insisted.

Ian held Mickey tight when he tried to move off. He sat up and let his hands glide to his back. “Mick, I know you’re worried,” he acknowledged gently. “I am too. But...” and he had to take a deep breath before he could say the rest, “you're worth the risk to me. I've never felt this way about anybody.” His proclamation had him wanting to hide in the sheets but he stayed put and kept his eyes locked on Mickey's.

“We should want baseball more than anything.”

“Baseball's not everything.”

Mickey chewed his lip and affixed his eyes on a spot over Ian’s shoulder. “I always thought it was,” he said quietly.

Ian wasn't sure that baseball had ever been everything to him, but he knew Mickey's narrative was different than his own. It swelled his heart that Mickey might count him as that something that rivaled baseball’s importance but the uncertainly on the other man’s face stalled his joy. He let his fingers scratch lightly up and down Mickey’s lower back in comfort.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he vowed. “Say the word and we stop and wait until the off-season.” He hoped to God he didn’t say the word.

Mickey snorted. “Yeah, 'cause that was workin' out real well for us.”

“I want you to be sure,” Ian persisted. If Mickey ever regretted him he didn’t know what he’d do.

Mickey let his gaze settle back on him. He brought his hands up to the redhead’s shoulders and slid them around his neck. “One thing I'm sure about is that we’re gonna be late for the bus if we don’t move.” He drew him in for a closed mouth kiss that they were both slow to part from. Ian marveled that kissing Mickey could be so wildly hot at times and so tender at others. Regardless of the kind, every single one left him yearning for a never ending supply.

They detached reluctantly and got dressed.

In the bathroom, Ian dampened his hair in an attempt to suppress the craziness and combed it down with his fingers; he needed a haircut or his cap might not fit his head soon. Mickey watched him mess with it while he brushed his teeth, a faint smile curling his lips. 

“I need to get it cut,” Ian commented.

Mickey humphed a sound of displeasure before he spit his toothpaste into the sink. 

“You don’t want me to?” He’d let it grow down to his ass if that’s what Mickey wanted. 

“It’s your hair, man,” Mickey grunted but it was too late, Ian had a grin plastered on his face that only the sun could challenge for brightness. 

No one had ever given a shit what he did with his hair before. The fact that it was Mickey and it felt so coupley and normal had him bursting at the seams. He swept him up and peppered him with kisses.

“Jesus, you’re like a fuckin’ wet puppy,” Mickey complained but he was smiling.

“You don’t want me to get it cut?” he prodded again when he came up for air.

Mickey rolled his eyes but relented. “I like it the way it is.”

“K, I’ll leave it,” he promised and beamed at the brunet in his arms until Mickey reached up and tousled the hair he’d managed to flatten. Ian released him with a smack to his ass and turned back to the mirror.

They packed up quickly and snatched each other close before they left their room; neither of them wanting to let the other go without sharing at least one more kiss. They surrendered to the urge until the last possible second, making it downstairs just in time to grab pastries and coffee and climb aboard the bus. 

Most of their teammates had already boarded but they’d left empty seats in the back for them. Ian settled into his with his tablet and earbuds; he’d downloaded video to review before his start later that day. When Mickey joined him moments later, his own tablet in hand, they shared a fleeting look before he put in his earbuds as well. Even doing their own thing was better in each other’s presence. 

Ian leaned his head against the back of his seat and smiled to himself. He was sure nothing could beat mornings wrapped up in Mickey followed by afternoons in his company and nights in his bed. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d be kissing him tonight, tomorrow, the next day and every day after.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making up for the short chapter folks!

As soon as the bus dropped the team off at McCoy Stadium, Ian and Mickey dumped their bags in their lockers and went directly to the field to share a cigarette. They lounged against the dugout railing and silently watched the grounds crew painting lines in the batter’s box.

It was hot; even hotter than it had been during the first game that Ian had pitched against the PawSox. It was the kind of hot that made baseball players lament the fact that they had to wear full length pants, high socks and layered shirts. Pitchers, especially, hated this weather; sweaty hands made it difficult to grip the ball and hot air carried it further, turning harmless fly balls into home runs. Their only hope was that the temperature would drop when the sun did.

They’d arrived at the field later than Ian liked to on days he was pitching. He needed his quiet time to perform his mental checklist: visualizing the win, breathing out the nerves, honing his focus. Yet, despite the heat and his pregame time being cut short, Ian was feeling great about his start. The morning had left him sated and more content than he could remember being in ages. He peeked at Mickey and smiled when he found the brunet looking back at him. 

Mickey cocked his head and rubbed his index finger over a red blotch on Ian’s neck. “I marked you,” he informed him with a smirk. “Sorry.”

Ian grinned at the memory of Mickey’s mouth on him. “You don’t look sorry,” he observed. He didn’t want him to be; he wanted him to make more.

A man approached from the PawSox dugout and Mickey quickly dropped his hand. He swore under his breath when he recognized who it was. The guy looked familiar but Ian couldn’t place him. He was dirty blond, athletically built, hot by any standards and had his dark eyes trained on Mickey.

“Hey,” the blond directed at the second baseman, “I need to talk to you.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Can we go somewhere?” the man asked.

“You can talk here,” Mickey offered. The guy flicked his eyes at Ian and back to Mickey. “He’s fine,” Mickey assured him.

“Did you get my text?” the man asked. “Thought we could hang out again. After the game.”

“Can’t,” Mickey grunted. He held the remainder of his cigarette out for Ian and the blond watched the hand-off with narrowed eyes.

“Tomorrow?”

Mickey shook his head. “No,” he said simply.

“Come on Mickey,” the guy urged, “we had fun last time you were in town.” The way he eyed Mickey had Ian standing up straighter.

Mickey glanced at Ian when he stiffened then scowled at the blond. “It’s not happening,” he told him firmly.

The guy wasn’t at all pleased with Mickey’s rejection. He focused his attention on Ian for a moment, hurling a few eye daggers his way, then turned on his heel. “Have a good game,” he called over his shoulder in a tone that made it crystal clear that he wanted nothing of the sort.

“Who was that?” Ian asked through tight lips when he was gone. He was sure he didn’t want to know but morbid curiosity got the better of him.

“PawSox shortstop.”

Ian hadn’t recognized him without a hat on but now his pitcher’s mind placed him easily: Lockyer, right handed, persistently crowded the plate, fastballs down the middle jammed him up.

“And you two…?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.

Mickey thumbed at his brow. “Yeah,” he confirmed grudgingly. 

Ian tried to keep his lunch down as he nodded. “That a regular thing?”

Mickey turned to him. “No, it was a couple times. I wouldn’t have seen him again even if you and I hadn’t...”

“How do you even know him?”

“He’s friends with Evans.”

Ian huffed. “That night you were _working out_ with Evans?”

“No,” Mickey said immediately and repeated again with his hand on Ian’s arm. “No.”

Ian stared at his feet with such a bitter taste in his mouth he wanted to spit; so much for his good mood. He knew it was irrational to be jealous, but God knew jealousy wasn’t always rational. Even if it was in the past, thinking about Mickey with anybody else was unbearable.

“Look, I get it,” Mickey told him and sighed. “If it makes you feel any better he’s a fuckin’ terrible lay.”

Ian was mulling over whether it did or not when Coach Meacham emerged from the clubhouse into the dugout behind them; once again prompting Mickey to hastily remove his hand from Ian. The Coach normally didn’t say much more than hello to them if he made an appearance during their pregame ritual, but today he climbed the dugout steps and clasped Mickey’s shoulder with his eyes twinkling. “I just got word you were voted onto the All-Star team,” he informed the second baseman.

“No shit,” Mickey breathed.

Ian’s rollercoaster of emotions began to climb again. Getting voted onto the all-star team was a huge deal and he couldn’t have been more thrilled for Mickey. Only thirteen players were voted onto the All-Star team by the general managers, media and fans each year. A further seventeen players were elected by the International League office to ensure there were two players for each position and a representative from every team, but it was the ones who were voted on that were held in the highest esteem.

Meacham smiled warmly at the brunet. “You deserve it,” he told him. “You’re one of the best second basemen we’ve had come through here.”

Mickey blinked a few times. “Thanks Coach,” he finally replied, swallowing back the emotion that the coach’s statement had elicited. “Anyone else from our team?” he wondered.

“We don’t know yet. They only announced the result of the vote. We’ll get word from league office later today or tomorrow about the rest.” He squeezed Mickey’s arm and turned to leave. “You two have five minutes and then you better get inside.”

Ian beamed at Mickey. “All-Star Second Baseman,” he said. “That’ll be your tagline from now on.”

“That sounds pretty good.”

“It sounds fucking amazing,” Ian corrected.

The smile that graced Mickey’s lips was so pure that Ian couldn’t resist wrapping him up in a hug. He told himself that teammates hugged each other all the time, which was absolutely true, but not quite how Ian did it. He considered where they were and added a few thumps on the brunet’s back in an effort to make it look more platonic. Mickey chuckled softly in his ear at his attempt. Ian pulled back, held him at arm’s length and admired him with blatant awe.

Mickey gently pried him off. “Alright, quit it,” he insisted.

Ian draped an arm around his shoulders and turned them towards the dugout. “I'm just proud of you,” he told him. “And really turned on,” he added in a much lower voice. When Mickey laughed, Ian mussed his hair and released him so they could climb down the steps. 

Ian noticed Lockyer standing in the PawSox dugout watching them. Mickey must have noticed as well because he asked, “You gonna be okay about that?” 

Ian shrugged. “I'll feel better when I make him eat my balls later.”

Mickey side-eyed him. “Huh?”

“The balls I pitch to him,” he clarified. “You're the only one I want eating my actual balls,” he continued with an awkward laugh. Then he groaned. “Fuck, did he eat _your_ balls?”

“Stop,” Mickey advised.

Ian jerked a nod and shut his mouth. It was for the best; he didn't need his mind going there before the game or Lockyer might really end up with a pitch in his teeth. 

In the locker room, their teammates swarmed the second baseman to offer their congratulations. As obvious as it was that he despised the attention, Mickey let them fawn over him for a full minute before telling them all to fuck off.

***

Ian had opted to shower between batting practice and the game, his only play in the futile battle against the humidity, yet he was drenched in sweat again after his short warm-up. He found a shady spot in the dugout to watch Mickey kick off the game with his first at bat. This was Ian’s eleventh game as a Bison and he still couldn’t keep his eyes off the second baseman no matter how many at bats he’d witnessed. 

Mickey sat on the first pitch; he always sat on the first pitch, Ian observed. He smacked the ball into left center on the third and got on second with a double. Ian stood and leaned against the railing then; watching Mickey run the bases was even better than watching him bat. Melendez joined him at the railing and nodded in Mickey’s direction, “You think he’ll try for third?”

“It’s too hot. If I were him I’d stay right there,” Ian replied. At least, that was his opinion until he saw Lockyer saunter over and say something that made the brunet shake his head. Mickey responded and the shortstop smiled and trotted back to position. Mickey stealing third suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea.

Mickey looked like he was seriously considering it and the infielders were keeping a close eye on him as a result. A generous lead on the third pitch made the pitcher nervous enough to whip it to second but Mickey stepped back in time. It was their second baseman who fielded the play but Lockyer backed him up. It brought him within talking distance of Mickey again and he took the opportunity to say something that made the brunet grin. 

“You alright?” Melendez asked Ian.

He realized he had Lockyer in a death glare and relaxed his face. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging, “I was just worried Mickey was going to get picked off.”

Melendez snorted. “I’ve only ever seen him get picked off once.”

Ian smiled thinly at that; so much for Mickey getting picked off.

The top of the inning continued like that, with Lockyer chatting up Mickey every chance he got. None of the other Bisons batters got on base and Mickey didn’t steal third _or_ get picked off. By the time he returned to the dugout for his glove and cap, Ian was in the perfect mood to get out there and throw some balls really fucking hard. Mickey escorted him there, parting with a gloved tap on the ass and taking his spot at second.

Ian started his warm-up with a pitch that hit 101mph on the radar. Butler hadn’t expected it and it flew off his glove and into the dirt behind him. He put his arms out as if to say ‘what the fuck’ but Ian threw him another at the same velocity. Then another. When the first batter came up, he struck him out in four pitches, all easily over 100mph. The next two men met similar fates.

“You’re on fire,” Mickey praised when he caught up to him on their way back to the dugout. He gave Ian an appreciative up and down eye flick that, combined with his flirty smile, had Ian’s stomach in knots. He wondered if he’d ever looked at Lockyer like that.

He managed to get him far enough down the bench that they were out of earshot of the other players. “Tell me more about how shitty Lockyer is in bed,” he blurted.

Mickey stared at him. 

“Come on, just tell me he’s got a small dick or he makes weird noises or something.” 

“Yeah, okay, both those things.”

“No, I want you to tell me the truth though.”

Mickey sighed heavenward and scrubbed a hand down his face. “What is this about?” he asked, leveling his eyes back on Ian.

“Just humor me.”

“This is the shit I worry about, Ian. You can’t let whatever’s goin’ on between us affect you out here.”

“I’m not. I just had a great inning.”

Mickey eyed him. He couldn’t argue with that. If anything, Lockyer was improving Ian’s game.

Melendez plopped down beside them on the bench, effectively ending the conversation. Ian turned away from Mickey with a huff. His leg bounced with the nervous energy of needing to get back out there and hurl shit.

In the bottom of the third, Lockyer was up after Ian had retired the first two batters. Butler threw the ball back to him and he rubbed his hands against his pants, wiped the ball against his shirt and sopped up the sweat on his forehead with his shoulder. Mickey caught his eye before he turned back to the plate and shot him a warning look that he ignored. 

He’d faced the shortstop three times in his previous start without giving up any hits and there wasn’t a chance in hell he was about to now. True to form, Lockyer was crowding the plate, just asking to be plunked. Ian had no intention of doing that though, not when it would give Mickey a reason to question his ability to separate business and pleasure.

His first pitch was a blazing fastball on the inside that Lockyer hopped back from. Ian rolled his eyes at the theatrics; it hadn’t come close to hitting him. His next two were both scorchers down the middle. The first, Lockyer watched whiz by, the second he swung on and fouled off. With a count of 1-2, Ian had him right where he wanted for a 102.3mph fastball that Lockyer whiffed on. Ian strode off the mound and into the dugout like the fucking boss he was and didn’t spare the shortstop a second glance.

Mickey was up third in the top of the next inning but he took a moment to eye Ian approvingly again before he left to grab a bat. “Givin’ the rest of us the night off?” he joked.

“Nah, I need you guys to get at least one run,” he pointed out with a cocky smirk. 

Mickey delivered with a single that brought in the first run of the game. Ian came to the top of the dugout to greet him with a high ten after the last batter of the inning grounded out and they gathered their gloves and caps to return to the field. 

Lockyer crossed their paths on his way back to the PawSox dugout but instead of going around the mound as baseball etiquette dictated, he walked over it. Ian gasped and Mickey yelled, “Hey, watch where the fuck you’re goin’!” Ian had never had an opposing fielder walk on the mound before. It was a matter of respect; an unwritten rule that was as old as the game itself. Lockyer sneered at Ian, leaving no question as to whether it had been an accident or not.

Butler trotted up to meet them. “Did you guys see that?”

Mickey, offended on Ian’s behalf, rapidly changed his tune regarding the PawSox shortstop. “You gotta bean that piece of shit next time he’s up.”

Butler was nodding his head in agreement.

“Forget it; he’s just trying to throw me off my game,” Ian told them and he was damned if he was going to let him. If knowing he’d slept with Mickey hadn’t done it, him walking on the mound sure as fuck wouldn’t. Ian felt far more territorial about Mickey than he did about a pile of dirt. It did, however, serve to fan the flames of the inferno that fueled his pitches.

Ian allowed one base hit that inning but Butler threw the guy out when he tried to steal second. Three up and three down again; he’d completed four innings and thrown less than fifty pitches. 

The Bisons got another run in the top of the fifth. When Ian gave up two consecutive base hits in the bottom of that inning, he wondered if the heat and his momentum were finally getting the better of him. He had runners on first and second with no outs when he sent a fastball to the third batter; the base runners took off on the pitch. The bat made good contact with the ball and a line drive was hit just to Mickey's left. The second baseman jumped, snatched it out of the air, tagged the nearby runner that had screeched to a halt with plans to return to first and stepped on second base before the other runner could get back; completing an unassisted inning ending triple play that was so rare even the PawSox fans were standing and clapping.

Ian stood on the mound with his hands on his hips as Mickey approached. “Trying to show me up?”

“I’ve got a tagline to live up to and you’ve been givin’ me fuck all to do the entire game.”

They grinned at each other and Ian rubbed Mickey’s head affectionately on their trek back to the dugout where Mickey, once again, had to submit to his team’s congratulatory embraces.

Ian gritted his teeth when Lockyer deliberately walked over the mound again after the top of the sixth. Mickey had been at bat late in the inning and Ian was waiting for him to gather his things before heading out to the field, but Lockyer’s brazenness had him rushing to the mound instead. “What’s your problem?” he spat at the shortstop.

“This is the shortest path across the infield.”

“You’re really determined to get a ball in the face aren’t you?” Ian asked him. He suppressed a cringe; he really needed to stop wording it like that.

Lockyer pounced on it. “Speaking of balls in people’s faces, it’s strange Mickey didn’t mention you last time I saw him. Then again, it’s not easy to talk with a dick that far down your throat.”

Ian bit his lip and delved deep to find the strength of will to keep from attacking the motherfucker. “Get the fuck off my mound,” he seethed.

Mickey and Butler flanked him seconds later. “Move,” Mickey ordered and climbed the mound with every intention of dragging the shortstop off. The various umpires around the infield made strides toward them, determined to break up whatever was going on. Lockyer raised his hands in submission and left without anyone’s assistance. 

Mickey turned to Ian. “He say somethin’ to you?”

Ian glanced at Butler then back at Mickey and shook his head. It was nothing he could repeat with Butler there and nothing he wanted to repeat either way. 

The second base umpire clapped his hands at them to get into position and Butler jogged to home plate. Mickey worried his lip but didn’t tear his uneasy gaze from Ian’s until the umpire gave him a second warning. As he watched him go, Ian was struck by how much Lockyer’s comment didn’t bother him in the way he would have expected. What really pissed him the fuck off was that Lockyer had the nerve to talk about Mickey the way he had. He may have had his suspicions about what Ian and Mickey were to each other but he didn’t know for sure that Ian wasn’t someone who would out him. The more he thought about it, the more enraged he became. The more enraged he became, the more he looked forward to Lockyer’s next at bat; he was due up third in the inning.

He threw a warm up pitch at Butler that nearly knocked the catcher off his feet. The first two batters didn’t stand a chance. 

When Lockyer approached the plate, Ian was torn. He’d never wanted to throw a ball at someone more in his life, but he also wanted to be the bigger man. He settled for a pitch that was high and inside and Lockyer jumped back at least two feet; the fucking wuss. As he moved back into the batter’s box he glared at Ian, removed a hand from his bat, and formed his fist into the universal symbol for cock sucking complete with the protruding tongue in his cheek.

Ian saw red. He was off the mound and charging towards the batter’s box before he’d given it a first thought, let alone a second. When Lockyer saw him coming he dropped the bat and lurched forward with Butler tight on his trail. The catcher caught him around the waist just as Ian reached them. Ian grabbed the front of Lockyer’s shirt and was about to throw a punch when Mickey appeared beside them. The second baseman caught Ian’s right hook and crashed a knee into Lockyer’s stomach. He and Butler fell backward onto the grass and suddenly there were men everywhere as both teams poured onto the field.

Ian lunged to get at the fallen PawSox shortstop but Mickey held him back. He pushed him from the fray and left the fighting to their teammates.

Mickey put his hand on the back of Ian’s neck and forced him to look him in the eye. “Would you fuckin’ stop,” he hissed. “You wanna break somethin’ and be out the rest of the season?” 

Ian shook him off and fumed as he watched the other players battle it out over a slight they had no knowledge of. The umpires soon reined them in and began to sort out who was being tossed. Ian already knew he was; he’d seen the home plate ump signal it as soon as he’d left the mound. Mickey and Lockyer were the only other players ejected. Ian stormed to the clubhouse with Mickey on his heels.

“What the fuck, Ian?!” Mickey exclaimed when they closed themselves behind the locker room door.

“He was crowding the plate!”

Mickey raised his eyebrows skyward in disbelief and waited for Ian to fess the fuck up.

Ian exhaled loudly and began to unbutton his jersey. “He said some shit, okay?”

“What kind of shit?”

“Stuff about you. And him.”

Mickey’s eyes grew dim. “Tell me what he said.”

“I’d rather not repeat it.”

Mickey ran his tongue along his lower lip and flared his nostrils. He turned and gripped the door handle.

Ian grabbed his arm to stop him. “What, you’re gonna bust into the PawSox locker room? You’d get a suspension and probably a fine too.” 

Mickey sighed and took his hand off the door. 

“At least you got to hit him,” Ian continued. “You stopped _me_.”

“You can’t use your fists, man,” Mickey scowled. “Elbows, knees, even head butt the fucker if you have to, but don’t use your hands.” Ian smiled at him and Mickey’s frown faltered. “What?” he asked.

“You’re just… badass,” Ian complimented. 

“ _I’m_ badass? I’ve never seen a pitcher charge the plate before.”

Ian chuckled and caged Mickey against the door with a hand on either side of his head. “I was protecting your honor,” he tormented.

Mickey scoffed. “Like fuck.”

“You pissed I went after him?”

“Fuck, no. I don’t know how you lasted as long as you did.”

Ian shrugged. “I had a game to pitch.”

“You did and you killed it,” Mickey praised as he plucked Ian’s cap off his head and wrapped his hand around his neck. “I love watching you in action.”

“Oh God, me too,” Ian groaned. “That fuckin’ triple play.” He tilted the bill of Mickey’s cap up and leaned in.

“How many strike-outs you get?” 

“Thirteen.” Ian brushed his lips over Mickey’s. “And you got two hits,” he murmured.

“You had a pitch reach 103, don’t even think you noticed,” Mickey whispered, his fingers digging into the hair at the base of Ian’s skull.

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll be an All-Star like you someday,” Ian purred. 

They grinned their way into a sultry kiss that tasted of salt and sunflower seeds. Pressed against the only door into the locker room, they didn’t have to worry about anyone walking in as they got lost in it for a moment. “We need to get the fuck outta here,” Mickey said when their lips parted.

“We need to shower first,” Ian pointed out.

“There’s no door on that room.” 

Ian smirked. “Why’s that a problem?” 

“Seems like a bad idea for us to be naked together right now,” Mickey cautioned softly. “Here anyway.”

“Wha-?” Ian stammered but Mickey put his cap back on his head and pushed past him. Ian stared slack jawed as Mickey tugged his jersey off on his way to his locker. _Here anyway?_

“I’ll go first,” Mickey suggested since Ian hadn’t moved. He stripped out of the rest of his uniform with the redhead raking his eyes over him the entire time. Ian leaned his head back against the door and ogled the jockstrap when it emerged into view. He then concentrated on exactly how perfectly Mickey’s ass shook with every step as he strutted his way to the showers.

Ian picked at the crotch of his uniform; he had just discovered how uncomfortable it was to get a boner when you were wearing a cup.

***

They split a cab back to the hotel with Mickey acting for all the world like he hadn’t said what he’d said and triggered Ian to start circling the drain.

When they arrived, Ian made a beeline for the bank of elevators. Mickey caught his arm. “We gotta check in,” he reminded him. The bus had gone straight to the field; they didn’t have room keys or even know what floor they were on.

Ian’s path diverted to the front desk and he glanced around wildly for staff that were nowhere in sight. Spying a silver call bell, he hammered it as though his life depended on it. He was certain the guy that finally answered checked them in as slow as fucking possible just to punish him for being annoying. 

A decade later, they stood outside their first floor room, no elevator required. Mickey let them into the dark space and tapped the nearest light switch; a floor lamp bathed the room in tepid light. They dropped their bags and Ian instantly enveloped Mickey in his arms, tugging him flush by the waist and pressing their foreheads together. “Hey,” he greeted on a hot, shaky breath.

“Hey,” Mickey replied, his tone silky.

Ian swallowed down his nerves as Mickey’s hands found the sides of his neck. “So-,“ he started, his eyes pleading with Mickey to let him rip his clothes off.

Mickey slammed their mouths together; his lips fierce, his tongue demanding as he stole the air from the redhead’s lungs. Ian felt a flush overtake him – the heat of Mickey’s mouth traveling to every corner of his body, every inch of him saturated with the need to be consumed by Mickey’s fire.

He cupped Mickey’s face and forced their lips apart, determined to make sure they were on the same page before he got even more carried away. He put his nose to Mickey’s temple and spoke low in his ear. “You've gotta stop kissing me like that if you don't want me to pound you into that mattress.” 

Mickey didn’t hesitate to smash his mouth back against Ian’s. He dropped his hands to his waist and skimmed them up his abs, bringing his shirt with them as he went. He broke their kiss to slip it over his head then twisted his fingers in red hair and let Ian chase his lips while he grinned. “Not gonna stop,” he told him breathily.

“Oh, fuck,” Ian panted and he successfully captured Mickey’s mouth. He stepped forward, guiding the brunet backwards into the room, seizing the hem of his shirt as they moved; it followed his own into the pile that was building at their feet. Mickey’s calves collided with the bed and he detached from Ian to turn and climb onto it. Ian trailed him like a bloodhound on a scent.

They fell back together, Ian slipping between Mickey’s legs, his teeth on his neck, biting at the brunet’s skin, sharp and unforgiving. Mickey mewled under him like prey and it only spurred him on, too hungry to stop. His head was dragged away by a fist in his hair and Mickey leered at him like he wouldn’t mind eating him too. They settled for devouring each other’s mouths again as Ian rolled his hips and slid a hand into Mickey’s pants to fondle the bottom of his ass.

He couldn’t have held back even if he’d tried and it occurred to him just how much Mickey had been restraining himself until now as well; there was an unmistakable purpose in his kisses that hadn’t been there before.

He flipped them, nipped at Ian’s lips and mouthed his way to his neck, onto his chest and down; his hands following the glistening path his tongue left in its wake. He stopped when he reached Ian’s belly, his chin resting there, his fingers curled under the waistband of his joggers, and gazed up at him with dark eyes. Ian lifted his hips and Mickey pulled, hooking his underwear on his descent and freeing his erection. It stood between them, tall and proud and harder than it had ever been in Ian’s life. Mickey discarded Ian’s bottoms to the pile on the floor and returned to wrap a hand around its base. Ian rose onto his elbows and dug his fingernails into the covers.

Mickey pressed damp kisses to his inner thighs as he stroked him firmly and teased at his balls with his other hand. Ian’s jaw clamped shut when Mickey’s mouth took his shaft; his tongue everywhere, searing into his sensitive flesh. Everything he did felt fucking amazing and he looked so good doing it. It was too much; the sensations were enough, Ian couldn’t watch too. He collapsed back on the bed with his hands in his hair and gaped at the ceiling. A strangled sound gurgled from his throat that he’d never heard himself make before and Mickey chuckled around his dick. 

Mickey lifted away and crawled up the bed beside him; shucking off his pants and underwear and looking at Ian expectantly. Ian stared blankly back until Mickey reached for him. “Get it the fuck together,” he teased. Ian surfaced from his trance and let himself be pulled to Mickey’s lips; he kissed him back with all the passion he’d been bottling up these last weeks. He rolled and lowered himself slowly over Mickey, their bare cocks connecting and hitching their breaths. Mickey was just as hard as he was, straining against him so solidly that the slightest movement had them both trembling. 

Mickey groped for his discarded pants while Ian sucked at his throat, retrieved his wallet from his pocket and tossing the pants away. He fished out a lube packet and attempted to set the wallet on the nightstand but it fell to the floor. He ignored it, ripped the packet open with his teeth and lifted Ian’s hand to squirt lube onto his fingers.

“Prep yourself,” he demanded. Ian snapped panicked eyes to Mickey’s and Mickey grinned. “Just kidding.” 

He guided Ian’s hand between his legs and Ian blew out the breath he’d held. He scattered kisses over Mickey’s neck and chanted ‘thank fuck’ over and over again until Mickey tugged at his hair and he raised his head. Their lips melted back together as a finger found Mickey’s rim and dipped within. Ian opened him hastily, adding another finger shortly after the first.

“Condom?” he asked, his entire body humming. He couldn’t wait another minute.

“The floor.”

They both peered over the side of the bed at the mess the contents of Mickey’s wallet had made. No condom in sight, Mickey looked back at Ian. “You get tested lately?” he asked quickly.

“Team did a medical when I got here. You?”

“Had one this month.”

“You were safe with…?”

“Haven’t fucked without a rubber since I was a teenager,” he said definitively.

Ian hadn’t either. He pulled his fingers from Mickey, grabbed the packet of lube, squeezed the remainder into his hand and spread it over his length.

“Well, this is gonna be the best thirty seconds of my life,” he panted, only half-joking, as he pressed Mickey’s legs wider and lined up with his entrance. Just the thought of going bareback with Mickey nearly had him coming. 

Mickey’s grunt of amusement turned into a groan of pleasure as Ian eased himself in. The feeling of Mickey taking him was fucking glorious; he sunk into his heat with his eyes squeezed shut against the warmth that crept up from his belly, leaning in for a hard, filthy kiss once he bottomed out.

Mickey pulsed around him, so tight and overwhelming that Ian couldn’t form a thought. His instincts told him to move; to set a slow, steady rhythm, but as Mickey moved with him his body demanded more. Their kisses regained their former intensity as their pleasure built, their rhythm becoming fast and hard, the sounds of their bodies slapping together adding to their moans and the squeaking of the bed. Ian was ravenous for it like he’d never been for anything or anyone. Every sinful noise he punched out of the brunet made him needier, more aroused, when he was already impossibly so. He crushed their mouths together as he fucked him hard, wanting to drive himself deeper and deeper with every thrust. Mickey’s hands pulled everywhere at his sweat slick skin, urging him on. 

They flipped, Ian somehow not realizing it was happening until he was flat on his back and Mickey had resumed their reckless pace from above. Ian’s hands landed on his ass and he arched into the incredible sensations, letting his eyes feast on Mickey as he moved; his senses assaulted by the man like they hadn’t even existed before now. Had he ever seen before he saw Mickey? Tasted, touched, heard, smelt?

He needed his mouth on him again. He rocked up, wrapped an arm around his waist and tugged him further onto him. His other hand fisted into his hair and yanked his head back so hard it must have hurt. Mickey grinned at the ceiling, apparently not averse to a little manhandling and _fuck_ that was sexy. Ian dove to paint messy kisses onto his gorgeous throat. He relaxed his grip so Mickey could move again, his fingers tight in Ian’s hair, their lips resting against each other. When his dick found that bundle of nerves deep inside the brunet, Mickey fucked himself onto it with throaty moans that had Ian doing everything he could not to come. He closed his eyes and didn’t open them until Mickey had slowed to let his tongue attack his mouth. 

Ian tightened his grip on Mickey’s waist and spun him onto his back. Mickey hooked his legs around him. When a sharp gasp ensured Ian that he’d found the brunet’s sweet spot again, he worked it with every deliberate thrust until Mickey was cursing beneath him. “I’m gonna-,” he got out between wicked groans before Ian felt his dick contract between them.

He rammed into him, savoring the feel of Mickey’s ass gripping him and the tremors that rippled through his body. He’d been fighting off his own climax nearly the entire time they’d been fucking yet he told himself to keep going, part of him wanting to stay in this place of desperation a little longer, where he was sure Mickey was his. But watching the man come undone beneath him; his head thrown back, his eyes unfocused, his lips parted, had Ian following him over the edge a few thrusts later. Mickey pulled him down and Ian moaned into his mouth as he went tumbling; the waves that washed over him so strong it felt like years worth of pent up pressure being released.

When his hips finally stuttered to a halt, the men stayed wrapped up in each other, breathing heavily and slowly recovering their wits. Mickey let his legs fall to Ian’s sides and Ian came back to life with the loss of their weight around him. “Jesus,” he swore breathlessly.

“Yeah,” Mickey panted.

“I wanna do it again.”

Mickey huffed a laugh. “Technically, we’re still doin' it.”

“Let’s stay like this until we're ready for round two.”

“Why?”

Ian chewed his lip. “I’m a little worried you won’t let me back in."

Mickey grinned up at him and pecked his mouth reassuringly. “I will, I promise.”

“When?”

“Ten minutes?”

Ian deemed that acceptable and began to lift off of him. The skin of their chests peeled apart; the mess of cum and sweat between them like glue. “I’ll get a cloth,” he offered as he pulled out and sat back on his haunches, looking Mickey over to assess the damage they’d done. His stretched out hole, seeping milky white cum, had blood rushing right back to Ian’s groin. “Hoooly fuck,” he groaned and started to crawl back over Mickey with obvious intent.

The brunet laughed and held him back with both hands. “Cloth,” he insisted.

Ian growled at him but relented. “Goddamn,” he swore when he indulged in one more peek but he stood on wobbly legs and made his way to the bathroom.

He appraised himself in the mirror as he ran the tap for warm water. His hair was in comical disarray, his neck and chest were covered in splotches, his lips were swollen and red, there was cum all over his stomach. He’d never looked more fucked out yet all he wanted to do was get right back at it. At Mickey.

Wiping at his skin, he began to come down from the fervor of their tryst and was unexpectedly hit with a wave of staggering doubt. What if Mickey had simply gotten swept up in the moment with him? His gut clenched at the likelihood that the brunet would tell him this had all been a mistake. He braced himself and returned to the room with the cloth.

He handed it to Mickey and lay on his stomach beside him, kissing his shoulder and resting his forehead there as Mickey cleaned himself as best he could. Mickey tossed the cloth and ran his fingers through Ian’s hair, sensing something was bothering the quiet redhead. “What’s up?” he asked.

“I’m freaking out,” Ian mumbled.

Mickey chuckled and moved his lips to Ian’s ear. “Don’t,” he told him gently.

Ian lifted his head and eyed him solemnly. “Are you gonna tell me we shouldn’t have done that?”

“No.”

“Why not? This morning you weren’t sure.”

“I’m sure about you,” Mickey clarified. “It’s the fucked up situation.”

“But that hasn’t changed.”

Mickey sighed, “Are you tryin’ to talk yourself out of gettin’ laid again?”

Ian shook his head. “Believe me, I want to get laid as much as possible but not if you’re going to regret it.” He waited for Mickey to speak and when he didn’t he added, with more emotion in his voice than he intended, “I’m falling so fucking hard for you, Mick, I couldn’t handle it.”

Mickey held his gaze as his fingers played in his hair. “Ian, if I wasn’t right there with you, none of this would be happening. We keep playin’ hard and there won’t be anything to regret. ”

“I will.”

“I know you will. Nothin’ could throw you off your game today. It was hot as fuck.”

“Yeah?” Ian grinned.

“Yeah. We got this. Badasses, right?”

“There’s nothing bad about your ass."

Mickey smiled and drew him in for a thorough kiss filled with assurances. “Ten minutes are up. Or do you need some more time?" he taunted.

Ian could have gone again nine minutes ago. He wormed his way between Mickey's legs and joined their mouths. Mickey stroked his cheeks as their tongues danced lazily, working to sooth their uncertain spirits. Ian’s arms snaked under his shoulders and his hands fell into black hair. They kissed and kissed, content with just tasting each other for the moment. When their desire to be even closer grew evident between them, Ian lifted up and Mickey grasped his shaft to lead him to his hole. Ian glided in on the slick of their previous encounter and he thrust, deep and unhurried this time, not chasing their climaxes but letting the warmth coil serenely in their bellies.

The vigor of their first time had been electrifying but this also was, in its own way; eyes meeting as often as lips, furtive sounds existing only for each other’s ears, gentle caresses leaving tingles in their wake.

“You feel incredible,” Ian murmured between kisses. “I’ll never get enough of you.”

“Good,” Mickey breathed back. 

Their smoldering fire built until their pace increased, their kisses growing more frenzied and their fingers gripping harder. They whispered curses into each other’s mouths and bit and tugged at each other’s lips as they mounted their peaks. Ian nudged Mickey’s chin up so he could drag his lips down to his collarbone; he only had seconds left in him. He reached to stroke Mickey through his release and the brunet came with a sexy groan that had Ian spilling inside him a moment later. 

They pressed their lips together one more time and exhaled in breathless unison.

“Shower?” Ian asked when he could form words again.

Mickey nodded and Ian handed him the cloth before he rose. He winced at the loss of Mickey’s skin against his own and he folded the brunet into him again as soon as they were under the spray. He hid his face in his neck and just breathed him in.

“We’re not gonna get clean like this,” Mickey complained. 

“Shhhh,” Ian cooed and continued to hold him tight.

Mickey submitted without further protest, his patience for Ian’s affections insurmountable. 

The water on Ian’s back felt good, Mickey in his arms felt even better. He was still reeling a little from the turn of events and Mickey’s close presence anchored him.

When he finally loosened his grip, Mickey griped that Ian, too tall and broad to shower with, was hogging the water. Ian surrendered the stream to him and contented himself with massaging soap into Mickey’s ass while the brunet tended to the rest. He appreciated how indulgent Mickey was being with him, he didn’t anticipate being able to keep his hands to himself for the foreseeable future. 

Mickey stepped out first and Ian rushed to get himself clean as well. Mickey was already in the sheets when he joined him in the main room. Ian slipped beneath the covers and curled into him. When his hand slithered south and met the barrier of Mickey’s underwear he frowned. “Why are you wearing clothes?” he grumbled.

Mickey shook with laughter against him but Ian wasn’t joking. He tugged Mickey’s underwear over the swell of his ass and down his legs, disappearing under the covers for a moment and then reappearing with the offending cloth in his hands. Mickey grinned as Ian preened, “That’s better,” and rested his hand on his bare ass. 

They faced each other on their sides, noses nearly touching, sharing the silence, their breaths and the feel of each other’s skin beneath their fingers.

“I've never had sex like that before,” Ian acknowledged quietly after a minute had passed.

“Which time?”

“Both,” he confessed as he studied Mickey’s eyes.

“Me either,” Mickey admitted, sending a thrill to Ian’s heart. 

His fingertips traced patterns into Mickey’s flesh as he thought about how happy he was. “Mick?” he whispered. “This can’t be wrong, what we’re doing. It can’t.”

Mickey smoothed a comforting hand across his temple. “If it is then fuck bein’ right,” he assured him and snuck a soft kiss onto his lips.

Ian felt a nearly painful rush of love for Mickey then; he recognized it for what it was and didn’t even question it. It didn’t matter that he’d only known him a few weeks, they’d spent more time together than an average couple would in months. He’d started falling the moment he’d laid eyes on him and even though he was pretty sure he’d never stop, he also knew that he’d already passed the point of calling it love. Tonight, admitting that to himself didn’t cause the ache that it had a few days ago.

He kissed Mickey sweetly, took his hand from his ass and wove their fingers together instead. Replete, he closed his eyes; it had been a long, hot, exhausting day and he was so ready for sleep. 

Mickey shook him awake before he could sink further into the abyss. “We gotta move like three feet that way so I don’t end up on the floor again.” 

Ian smiled and shuffled backwards with Mickey in tow. They relaxed back into their pillows, tangled up in each other, body and soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Baseball Terms in this Chapter:**  
>     
>  **Plunked:** To be hit by a pitch.
> 
>  **Picked Off:** An act by a pitcher, throwing a live ball to a fielder so that the fielder can tag out a baserunner who is either leading off or about to begin stealing the next base.
> 
>  **Whiff:** This refers to when a batter swings and misses at a pitch and strikes out. The word whiff comes from the sound the bat makes when swinging through the air and it not making contact with anything.


	12. Chapter 12

The sun had barely begun to grace the sky when Mickey stirred awake the next morning. Their room was still dark; the bright blue digits of the alarm clock the only indication that the day had arrived. They’d fallen asleep earlier than usual so it was no surprise he was waking up at the crack of dawn. 

He chuckled to himself when he noticed how near he was to the edge of the bed. Ian was snug at his back, moulded to him from his forehead to his toes, his breath tickling the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. Even unconscious, Ian’s body sought his; an irrefutable pull that never subsided. Mickey was just as powerless against its force. The dull ache in his ass was proof enough of that. 

A portion of him wished he could extend the night and stay this close to him longer but another, more insistent part, itched to look at him. He rotated incrementally so he could face him without waking him just yet. He lay on his side, his face inches from Ian’s, and watched for signs that he’d disturbed him. Seeing none, he settled in to let his eyes roam over his features. He marvelled that even in their shadowy room, with everything rendered in shades of grey, Ian was somehow in color; vivid and in stark contrast to the monochromatic world around him. The surge of warmth he felt, seeing him like this, asleep, radiant, exposed, was a feeling that never ceased to take him off guard no matter how often it struck.

He hadn’t expected this. For Ian, or any man, to have this effect on his heart and mind.

Baseball had been his singular focus for as long as he could remember; from the moment he’d realized it could be a path to a better life. He’d let it absorb him until he hadn’t needed anything or anyone else. He'd always been alone, at first by circumstance and then by choice; celebrating his own successes, picking himself back up, wiping his own tears, finding a way to grow from the things that were meant to break him.

He hadn't known how lonely he'd been until he had Ian's company; hadn't known he'd been empty until Ian had filled him; didn’t know he was ready to love, or that he even could, until he was practically drowning in it. No wonder that as desperate as he’d been to not want the redhead, he’d wanted him anyway.

Now, for the first time in his life, there was something besides baseball that he couldn't walk away from. With no way to experience Ian within his comfort zone, he'd thrown himself back into the arms of uncertainty, hopeful to emerge on the other side with his career intact. It was terrifying; what he would do for Ian, how much control he was willing to relinquish. 

His experience told him it was risky, his reason told him it was foolish, but his heart shouted for him to take a chance. So here he was, giving fate countless ways to hurt him, and trusting that it wouldn’t. It should have been harder, under the circumstances, to give himself over to a man he'd known only a few weeks, but it had been so much more difficult not to. 

As Ian’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled sleepily at him, he was reminded why, because no one had ever looked at him the way that Ian did.

“Morning,” Ian greeted softly.

“Morning.”

Ian slid a hand up his arm and smirked. “You watching me sleep?”

“No,” Mickey denied, too quickly.

“You were, you were watching me sleep,” Ian teased. Mickey rolled his eyes which only made Ian’s smile grow broader. He moved closer, propping himself on his elbow and hovering over Mickey’s lips. He smelled like Ian laced with a little bit of him. “Admit it, you’re obsessed with me,” he whispered playfully. Mickey shut him up with a kiss and Ian chuckled against his mouth. “It’s okay,” he cooed, “I’m obsessed with you too.”

Mickey snorted. “Obsessed with my ass maybe.”

“Mmmhmm,” Ian agreed and let his hand glide down Mickey’s side. “And your eyes, and your mouth,” he muttered and brushed his nose against Mickey’s, “and your voice, and your smell,” he groaned as he trailed his lips over Mickey’s jaw to his throat, “and your neck, and your… Oh, shiiit.“ His head popped up.

“What?”

Ian’s wide eyes darted from Mickey’s, down to his neck and back again. 

Mickey twisted out of Ian’s hold and swung his legs off the bed. Ian clambered after him as Mickey hurried to the bathroom and switched on the light. The redhead stood in the doorway, shamefaced, while Mickey tilted his head to get a good look at his neck in the mirror. Two concentric arcs bearing the distinct impressions of Ian’s teeth stood out in deep red on his pale skin. “Christ,” he sighed. Their teammates would be absolutely fucking relentless if they saw it. He gripped the edge of the counter and wracked his brain for a solution. “You gotta suck it some more,” he demanded of Ian’s reflection.

“Uh…” Ian stuttered. 

Mickey whirled on him. “You gotta suck it until it looks like a regular mark and not a bite.”

“Maybe we could try covering it up with make-up?”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’d be better if the guys notice make-up on my neck,” Mickey scoffed.

Ian was still hesitant. “So, you want me to turn it into a hickey?”

“Yeah, it’ll look like it’s from the fight,” he reasoned. When Ian eyed him dubiously he added, “Or it’ll look like a hickey, whatever, either is better than dealin’ with the fuckin’ vampire jokes.”

“Okay,” he agreed slowly and took tentative steps toward Mickey until they were toe to toe. He slid a hand onto Mickey’s lower back. “You’re sure about this?”

Mickey stretched his neck to give him better access. “Do it.”

“Alright, here goes,” Ian muttered then sealed his lips over the bite and proceeded to suck timidly. 

All it was doing was making Mickey itchy. “Fuckin’ hoover it,” he urged. 

The suction increased until it started to pinch. A few moments of that and Ian raised his head to look at the results of his efforts. “I don’t think it’s working.”

“You gotta do it longer.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You weren’t worried about that last night,” Mickey pointed out.

Ian smiled suggestively and leaned in close. “That’s different.”

“Sadist,” Mickey accused with a grin on his lips that told Ian he hadn’t minded one bit. He never would have predicted that the seemingly tame redhead would be rough with him in bed. It made him wonder what else Ian could do to him. 

Ian cradled Mickey’s face with one hand and traced the fingers of the other down his spine until they were digging into his naked ass. “Masochist,” he countered huskily. 

They leered at each other until Ian bit at Mickey’s bottom lip and claimed his mouth with his tongue. It was raw and distinctly sexual and had them rapidly growing hard against each other. 

Mickey reached for Ian’s dick and the redhead groaned into their kiss. There was no doubt that they would be heading back to bed but they still had the matter of the bite mark to contend with. Mickey pulled his mouth away but continued to stroke Ian as he ordered, “Hickey.”

Ian ducked his head to Mickey’s neck and closed his lips over the bite; this time with zero reluctance. Mickey savored the burn as Ian sucked a bruise into his flesh. Half a minute after he’d started, Ian assessed the mark he’d made. “Looks good,” he decided swiftly. “Can I fuck you now?”

Mickey gave a single nod and Ian crushed him against the vanity, kissing him like he’d been waiting a lifetime to reunite their mouths. Mickey loved this effect he had on him, this firestorm of want that he ignited. He’d had plenty of men hungry for him, but Ian’s appetite was on another level. He pushed himself from the counter and backed them out of the bathroom towards the bed, shoving Ian down when they bumped against it. 

He was on him with his shaft back in his hand moments later, swallowing the noises he pulled out of his throat. Ian had fingers locked tight in his hair and others already probing at his entrance; the delicious sting of their assault making Mickey crave more. 

“Do you have more lube?” Ian asked eagerly, already knuckle-deep with two digits despite not having any. 

“I only had one packet. You?”

“No.”

“You got a condom? That’ll be good enough.”

“No,” Ian repeated.

Mickey couldn’t help but grin down at him because of course he fucking didn’t. “You’re an adult gay man that doesn’t carry lube or a condom? You _sure_ I didn’t take your virginity yesterday?”

Ian gave him a sly smile. “You think a virgin could make you come like I did?" he asked with a jab to Mickey’s prostate for emphasis.

“Beginner’s luck,” he taunted unconvincingly through his shudder. 

“Fuck you,” Ian laughed and withdrew his fingers. “Get on your back,” he commanded and Mickey dropped to the side. Ian groped around in the sheets until he recovered their discarded lube packet from the previous evening.

“There’s still a condom on the floor somewhere,” Mickey reminded him.

“I think I can get enough out of this,” Ian insisted. Mickey couldn’t blame him for wanting to use the condom as a last resort; it had felt fucking amazing without it. He laid the packet beside them, manoeuvred between Mickey’s legs and looked him in the eye. “Mind if I stick my tongue in your ass?”

Mickey barked a laugh and shook his head. “Nah, man, have at it,” he consented. “Do whatever the fuck you want to me.”

Ian crouched over him long enough to bite at his lips again. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any sexier,” he mused. 

He shuffled back and dove, the moist heat of his mouth found Mickey’s opening at the same time his fist found his dick and he tucked into like it was his last meal. Mickey fell back into the pillows because _goddamn_ it felt good, but judging by the unruly moans coming from below, Ian was enjoying it even more. Mickey would have been amused by it if Ian’s lips weren’t massaging his hole with such unbridled enthusiasm. As it was, he needed all his concentration to keep his legs from shaking. When Ian’s tongue eased its way in and began to fuck him in earnest, Mickey’s moans nearly matched Ian’s in intensity; when his fingers joined in soon after, Mickey cursed himself for not insisting Ian do this weeks ago. 

All at once, his ass was empty and cold as Ian disengaged and sat back on his haunches. “You good?” he panted. 

Mickey nodded because… words? Ian cocked an eyebrow at him knowingly and grabbed the lube packet. He worked every crevice of the foil until he had enough to cover the head of his dick. It took an enormous act of willpower for Mickey to not growl at him to hurry the fuck up but he managed to refrain from being the needy bitch his ass was begging him to be.

“Turn over,” Ian requested when he was satisfied he’d milked the packet for everything it had.

Mickey wasted no time flipping; he needed the ache of Ian inside him ten minutes ago. He rested his elbows on the bed and jutted his ass in the air. Ian’s hands were reverent against his cheeks, smoothing over them so tenderly that the last thing Mickey expected was to feel teeth sharp against his skin.

“Ian!” he snapped. If the fucker left a bite mark on his ass he was going to kill him. _After_ his orgasm.

“Sorry,” Ian mumbled, his tone contrasting with his sentiment, “you make me fucking rabid.”

He didn’t give Mickey a chance to stew in his annoyance; the brunet felt the fire of Ian breaching him seconds later. They sighed in harmony as Ian buried himself in Mickey’s body, thrumming inside him, solid and substantial against his walls. He eased into a moderate tempo that Mickey welcomed while he adjusted to the intrusion but he was soon meeting him thrust for thrust, urging him deeper and harder with every plunge. He was in the mood to get railed, to have all his worries pulverized out of him, and Ian caught on quickly. He picked up the pace, his hand clasped on the back of Mickey’s neck, pounding into him until their groans were escaping on the air that rushed from their lungs. 

Mickey’s forehead fell into the pillow, muffling his sounds, and Ian wrenched his head back out by his hair. Mickey obediently held it free of the bedding but lifted from his elbows to his hands so he could drop it between his shoulders. 

Ian fucked into him, his fingers like vices on Mickey’s flesh, his forehead erupting in perspiration, until Mickey was sure his arms would give out. Somehow, Ian found a way to increase the intensity, the pressure, everything, leaving Mickey at his willing mercy; Ian’s next thrust the only thing keeping him sane. He almost pleaded with him to make him come but didn’t; the fierce need Ian was driving into him too good to end prematurely. He hadn’t known for sure if Ian had this in him and he was so fucking glad to find out he did.

“Lift up, put your hands on the headboard,” Ian ordered. He paused so Mickey could oblige and then settled into a new, more purposeful rhythm that had Mickey appreciating Ian’s knack for finding his prostate. He bared Mickey’s neck with another tug on his hair and leaned into him to glide his tongue from its base to his ear. His mouth stayed hot on Mickey’s neck and his fingers harsh in his hair, holding him right where he wanted him, as he continued to batter his hole. His other hand was ablaze on Mickey’s skin, sliding down his chest and over his abs until he reached his cock. “You wanna come?” he breathed.

Mickey grunted his assent and Ian began to work his shaft in time with his hips, giving Mickey nothing to do but ride it out as he hurtled him towards his climax. Ian rammed him through it, pumping moans out of him that Mickey couldn’t have stifled if he’d tried. He joined Mickey’s chorus seconds later, his thrusts petering out until he was motionless but for the heaving of his chest against Mickey’s back, his breath loud and quick in his ear.

“Beginner’s luck?” he rasped and Mickey grinned. Ian smacked a kiss to his cheek and let go of his hair. He pulled out and Mickey flipped and crashed onto the bed with Ian landing in an exhausted heap beside him.

Mickey admired his roommate’s well earned afterglow and reached to thumb a bead of sweat from his temple; Ian ducked his head into the pillows to wipe off the rest. “That was really fuckin’ good,” Mickey praised.

Ian still hadn’t caught his breath but he nodded. “Did I tell you how happy I am that you bottom?” he panted.

“Did I tell you how happy I am that you know how to use that spare bat of yours?”

“Only one I know how to use.”

Mickey chuckled. “You can say that again.”

Ian smiled and leaned in for a quick kiss. His fingers curled into Mickey’s hair and he abruptly pulled back to look at his hand. “There's cum in your hair,” he informed him then licked it off naughtily. He leaned back in, connected their upturned lips briefly, then dragged his mouth to the crook of his neck.

“I’m surprised I still have hair on my head,” Mickey quipped.

“Shut up, you love it,” Ian mumbled between pecks.

“Never said I didn’t.”

Ian’s head came back up when his lips met a particularly salty spot on Mickey’s skin. “Your neck has cum on it too.”

“There's cum everywhere, man. I’m lying in a puddle of it. Good thing we’ve got two beds.”

“We better tip the cleaning staff.”

“Big fuckin’ tip,” Mickey agreed. 

“Especially after they see the mess we’re about to make in the shower,” Ian predicted with a grin. 

Mickey shook his head. “My ass is out of commission ‘til after the game. I’m gonna be feelin' you every time I move as it is.” He wagged his eyebrows. “I’ll suck your dick in there though.”

Ian’s eyes lit up. “Deal!” he exclaimed and planted a hard kiss on Mickey’s mouth before practically leaping off the bed. He grabbed the brunet’s hand and pulled a laughing Mickey up after him.

***

Besides Ian’s load and Mickey’s ass, neither of them had eaten anything since before yesterday’s game. Despite their famine, they found themselves reluctant to burst the bubble they’d created together in their hotel room. After their lengthy shower, they ordered room service rather than face their teammates at the breakfast buffet. 

The decision also served to keep Mickey unclothed for as long as possible, which seemed to be one of Ian’s primary objectives. Mickey convinced him of the necessity to wear underwear however; the cum-faucet Ian had installed in his ass made them prudent.

They dug into eggs, sausage and toast, washed it all down with strong coffee, then lounged on the unused bed. Mickey gave into the urge to spread himself across Ian’s chest, the hum of his heart relaxing him as Ian ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’m a little surprised you turned out to be a cuddler,” Ian mused.

“Me too,” Mickey mumbled. The affection that he gave so naturally to Ian was definitely not part of his usual repertoire with men.

“If only your South Side cronies could see you now.”

“They’d kick my ass.”

Ian scoffed. “Not a chance. I’d protect that ass with my life.”

Mickey grinned up at him and Ian fluttered his lips across his forehead. He traced the blue and purple stain on Mickey’s lat with a gentle finger. “This bruise doesn’t look any better,” he told him.

“Still hurts.” It had only been a few days since he’d gotten hit by the pitch, but so much had changed that it could have easily happened ages ago. 

“We should be putting heat on it.”

Mickey grunted. _We_ , he thought idly. Ian likely didn’t even realize he’d worded it like that. It was jarring in its normalcy.

“And your wrist?” Ian asked as his caress moved from Mickey’s back to the joint in question.

“It’s good,” he assured him. 

Mickey’s phone dinged, signalling a text. He stretched to snatch it off the nearby side table and sat up.

Ian sat up with him and reclined against the pillows. “If that’s Lockyer looking to hook-up again, let me reply to him,” he requested wryly.

“I’m pretty sure he got the message yesterday.” Probably around the time Ian was charging him and Mickey was landing a blow to his stomach. “It’s Evans. He wants to go for a drink after the game to celebrate the All-Star thing.”

“You going to go?”

“You wanna?” he asked automatically. It just felt like a given that Ian would go with him if he went.

Ian furrowed his brow. “I’m invited?”

“Sure. Evans won’t give a shit.”

“I struck him out twice yesterday and then tried to attack his friend.”

Mickey pursed his lips. “True, but you’ve been giving his other friend awesome orgasms since then. That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

Ian laughed. “It might, if we could actually tell him.”

“He knows I’m gay.”

“Yeah?”

Mickey tossed his phone on the bed and hooked an arm around Ian’s neck to haul him close. “Yeah,” he confirmed as he began to litter Ian’s lips and neck with supple kisses, “told him when we roomed together. His brother’s gay.”

Ian, who had been putty in his hands, stiffened and dipped his head into Mickey’s neck. “Did you sleep with his brother?” he mumbled glumly.

Mickey smiled. “Nah. His brother’s not my kinda gay.”

Ian lifted his head. “What kind is that?”

“The kind that gets a hard on for glitter,” he explained succinctly. 

Ian chuckled and melted back into him,“Got it.” His hands slid behind Mickey’s shoulders, onto the back of his neck, as he pressed him into the pillows and deepened their kiss. His tongue had Mickey reconsidering his stance on not getting plowed more than once. The conversation they’d been having slipped from their minds until Mickey’s phone dinged beside his head again. 

“So, you wanna go?” he asked.

“Sure, I’ll go anywhere with you,” Ian vowed into his skin.

“What you mean is you’d follow my ass anywhere.”

Ian’s toothy grin confirmed it. He kissed Mickey’s chest while the brunet typed a message back to Evans. When he was done, he turned his concentration back to Ian as the redhead made his way down his body. 

“You think another orgasm would make Evans like me even better?” he asked when his mouth reached the top of Mickey’s underwear.

Mickey was about to tell him that yes, he was absolutely fucking sure it would, when Ian’s phone rang and they both groaned.

Ian vaulted off the bed and groped for it in the pocket of the joggers he’d been wearing the night before. He accepted the call and held it to his ear. “Hey,” he greeted.

Mickey rolled onto his stomach and hid his head in the pillows to wait. He’d overheard a few phone calls between Ian and his family and he assumed this was another.

“It was good,” Ian told the caller. He paused to listen. “Uh, actually, I don’t know if we won. I was ejected.” He listened for a beat then said, “It’s a long story.” After that Ian was silent for a minute while the caller spoke. “No, it’s okay, I get it,” he responded sadly. “Yeah, another time,” he agreed. That was the extent of his side of the conversation until they said their goodbyes.

Mickey pulled his head out of the pillows and watched him climb back on the bed. 

“My sister,” Ian told him after he’d hung up. “I was trying to convince her to bring my siblings out to catch a game in Columbus after the All-Star break.”

“Not happenin’?”

He shrugged. “They’ve all got their own shit going on. They never made it to any of my college games but I was hoping a five hour drive could work.”

“That sucks, man,” Mickey sympathized. He’d never had any desire for his own family to come watch him play but, even uninvited, his sister had invaded a few games over the years. 

“It’s no big deal,” Ian assured him but his disappointment was etched on his face.

Mickey sat up and leaned back against the headboard beside him. He nudged his shoulder. “You got any pictures of ‘em?”

Ian eyed him quizzically until his lip curled at the corner. “Yeah,” he finally replied, “I’ve got some on my phone.” He plucked it from the bed where he’d dropped it and navigated to his photos. 

Mickey observed curiously, wondering what sorts of things Ian would bother to take pictures of. “That’s a fuckload of sunset photos,” he noticed.

“They’re sunrises,” Ian corrected. “I take them when I go for jogs in the morning.”

Mickey sat in contemplation of how he’d fallen for a guy that took pictures of sunrises until Ian landed on a photo of a sandy blond man. He was sitting at an old kitchen table, peering up at the camera with dopey blue eyes. “That’s my older brother, Lip,” he told him.

Mickey tread carefully. With a name like ‘Lip’ and him looking the way he… looked, he suspected the guy had something wrong with him. He sure as fuck didn’t look like Ian. “Nice,” he said tactfully.

Ian raised an eyebrow, “Nice?”

“Yeah, nice,” Mickey elaborated helpfully and waved his hand. Next.

Ian laughed and flipped through some more photos. He stopped on a pretty brunet with dark eyes who had her arm around a black kid. “That’s my older sister Fiona and my youngest brother, Liam.”

Mickey was getting more confused by the minute but he nodded and Ian kept going. He finally came to a girl that resembled him and told Mickey it was his younger sister Debbie and that the kid beside her was his brother Carl. “The sociopath?” Mickey asked and Ian told him it was. “Got any of your parents?" Mickey couldn’t even begin to comprehend what the people who produced this eclectic mix of kids might look like.

“I don’t have any of my mom, but, uh,” he squinted at his screen, “that’s Frank there,” he said, pointing to a lump on the floor behind his sister and brother. He handed it over to Mickey but he wasn’t able to make anything out besides some scraggly blond hair. 

He couldn’t resist asking what was on his mind. “He everybody’s father?”

“His brother is mine, actually,” Ian confided, “but everyone else we tested was his.”

“Even the black kid?” 

“Yup.”

“So, if he’s your uncle then your siblings are also your cousins?”

“You got it.”

Mickey was getting a portrait of Ian’s family that couldn’t be held in a photo roll. The dad/uncle passed out on the floor, the absent mother, even the ratty surroundings his siblings were photographed in. It was different from his own family, but also so similar that he could see why he and Ian fit perfectly together; the damaged, jagged bits of them had been broken off in much the same ways.

“You got any of your family?” Ian inquired.

“Nah, that’s a new phone,” he said pointing to his where it lay on the bed. “I’ve never taken a picture with it.”

“Seriously?” Ian reached across the bed to snatch it up. “Let’s break it in,” he proposed as he handed it to Mickey to unlock and then took it back. He thumbed to the photo app and held it at arm’s length so they were both framed in the display. Mickey lifted an eyebrow at the camera and Ian smiled sweetly. His thumb hovered over the button but didn’t make contact. “Smile,” he encouraged without moving his lips to speak. Mickey barely lifted a corner of his mouth and Ian, still in ventriloquist mode, scolded him, “You look cranky. Smile.” Mickey kept the same expression but flipped off the camera and Ian turned his head to scoff at him. Mickey finally grinned and Ian tackled him sideways into the pillows. After a few jabs to his ribs and some light-hearted wrestling, Ian had him pinned and laughing. “Are you gonna cooperate?” he asked him breathlessly.

“K,” Mickey relented and Ian heaved him upright. He snapped the photo before Mickey’s smile could fade. “Alright, you got it, asshole,” Mickey laughed, “now c’mere.” He dragged him back down onto the bed and pulled Ian’s face to his so their lips could wrestle instead. 

They decided to skip their morning ritual at the field, opting to stay in their bubble a little while longer. They spent the extra time locked together; caressing with gentle fingers and kissing with lips that formed smiles whenever they would briefly part. Here, like this, with their tongues dancing to the song their souls were singing, it was easy to pretend that nothing could come between them; that there was a chance they could have both: baseball, us. Because unlike the effort they’d put into staying away from one another, this was effortless. 

“Let’s find out if you got the win,” Mickey suggested before they left for the bus. They’d finally gotten dressed and had twenty minutes to spare before it departed for the field. He retrieved the television remote and sat on the edge of the bed where Ian joined him. A moment of channel surfing found the local news. They only waited a few minutes before the sports highlights began.

When the coverage of the PawSox game came on the screen and Ian saw himself, he remarked, “Fuck, it’s so weird being on the news.”

Mickey sometimes forgot how novel this all was to Ian. He was so talented, it made it seem like he’d been with the team a lot longer than he had. “Yeah, it’s a trip,” he agreed.

The sports anchor gave the rundown of the first few innings, commenting on the speed and accuracy of Ian’s pitches. Pride swelled in Mickey’s chest and he ruffled his red hair. He dropped his hand to his shoulder as they watched Mickey’s triple play and Ian muttered, “So hot,” beside him. Their smiles held until the footage of Lockyer crossing the mound for the second time was shown. 

Mickey narrowed his eyes during Lockyer’s at bat and studied the scene intently. “Was that what I think it was?” he queried when he saw the shortstop’s vulgar gesture.

“You weren’t looking when he did that?”

“No.”

And then they watched as Ian took off from the mound and the sportscaster’s voice erupted with excitement. The field exploded with men after Mickey rushed into the mix and the commentator called the action like he was at a prize fight. 

Peralta came on to relieve Ian after his ejection. He gave up a run in the eighth but the Bisons held their lead. Mickey squeezed Ian’s shoulder when he saw that he would get the win. 

The anchor came back on the screen at the conclusion of the game review and announced that the Blue Jay’s left fielder had suffered a ligament injury and that Liston had been called up overnight from the Bisons to replace him. Liston, otherwise known as Bowser. “Holy shit, he’ll be playing with the Jay’s today,” Ian breathed like he couldn’t comprehend it.

Mickey nodded; he was used to players coming and going. “Good for him,” he replied. “It’s his first time.” 

Ian still looked shell shocked. “I mean, I know how close we are,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem real sometimes.”’

“It does now?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighed as he searched the brunet’s eyes. Mickey’s gaze was soft and full of compassion because he knew Ian’s thoughts mirrored his own; that the one thing he’d worked his whole life for could happen any day and it wasn’t supposed to be bittersweet. It wasn’t supposed to be the thing he feared as much as not getting there at all.

Mickey pulled him in for the hug he knew he needed and held onto him like a promise. When they pulled apart, try as he might, he couldn’t find a remark that would lighten their heavy mood as they trudged their way downstairs and back to reality. Bowser’s absence felt louder on the bus than the rowdy outfielder’s presence ever had. Ian left his own seat empty and sat quietly in the last row beside Mickey, who promptly threw a hoodie over their laps so they could thread their fingers together beneath it. As stupid a risk as it may have been, he did it anyway, because the field was a quick ten minute drive away and hanging onto Ian was the only thing that made it feel like there was a chance he wouldn’t slip away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter (@and_i_take_it) if you want updates on this fic. I'll follow you back :)


	13. Chapter 13

The Bisons’ locker room was livelier than it typically was before a game. The space had erupted in animated chatter as soon as the team had filed inside from the buses. Between the fight and win over the PawSox the previous day, Bowser’s departure and Mickey’s hickey, the men had a lot to talk about. The general consensus was that Ian was a savage on the mound, Bowser was one lucky motherfucker and the hickey was indisputable proof that Mickey did, in fact, have a sex life.

Their teammates distracted Ian and Mickey from their sullen moods as they peppered them with questions; chief among them being the origin of Lockyer’s beef with Ian and the identity of the mysterious woman that had finally caught Mickey’s eye. It only took a few strikes from Mickey’s barbed tongue for them to conclude that, as usual, they would get nothing from the second baseman. When the focus of their interrogation shifted to Ian, Mickey held his breath, but for once, the pitcher kept his cool. Ian claimed he had no idea what Lockyer’s problem was, only that he’d obviously needed to be dealt with, and sited roommate code for not divulging any of Mickey’s secrets. If any of the players suspected the truth, they didn’t show it.

The game itself was uneventful apart from Lockyer’s lone trip to the bases in the bottom of the third. The shortstop made it safely to first with a single, and proceeded to second on a sacrifice fly, where Mickey took the opportunity to remind him of who he’d been fucking with; insisting that if Lockyer liked having teeth in his mouth, he better keep Mickey’s name out of it. Mickey knew Lockyer to be a decent guy so whatever the fuck had come over him the day before had better be finished.

At the conclusion of the game, Mickey led Ian out to the player’s area of the parking lot. It was dark, with two derelict light poles the only thing holding back the night, but he was able to find Evans’ car amongst the others. They sat against the hood and lit up a cigarette; Evans would likely be stuck signing a few autographs at the PawSox’s exit.

Mickey knocked Ian’s shoulder with his own and settled his eyes on his profile. He’d been a quiet all day and he suspected his thoughts were eating at him. “Still thinkin’ about Bowser?”

Ian let out a long breath as he studied the sky. “Yeah. Him. Everything.” He looked at Mickey sadly and shrugged. “I’m just worried.”

“All we can do is live in the moment or some shit. Pretend like we’re a normal couple,” Mickey advised. It was the best he could do; it was hard to find words of comfort when his own mind was just as tormented. 

“We’re a couple?” Ian asked brightly, his gloomy disposition instantly forgotten.

Mickey froze. He’d said it without thinking. “Fuck, I dunno. Are we?”

“You just said we are,” Ian noted.

“Okay, then we are,” Mickey concluded and he watched Ian’s smile turn so syrupy it hurt his teeth to look at him.

He felt a fierce pull to kiss him, but though they were alone, they weren’t in private. The fact that he couldn’t was an unwelcome, yet timely reminder that despite their best intentions, no matter what label they gave it, their relationship was full of limits. He refused to let that truth take roost, not in that moment, so he turned his smiling face to the stars and remained hopeful that they would be kind to them.

“So, how close are you and Evans?” Ian queried after they’d sat in their silent reverie for a bit. He took a pull on the cigarette and passed it back.

“I dunno, man. We roomed together for a couple seasons. It’s not like we traded friendship bracelets.”

“You told him you’re gay though. That’s a big deal.”

Mickey shrugged. At the time, it hadn’t seemed like it was. Originally from Boston, Evans had been less than an hour north of his hometown when they played for the New Hampshire Fisher Cats. His family, including his very gay brother, had attended so many games and crashed at their place so often that Mickey had had plenty of opportunities to see how Evans felt about queers before he’d come out to him. In the spring of their first season as roommates, after Mickey witnessed Evans’ brother convince the PawSox player to wear rainbows and accompany him to the Boston Pride Parade, he was confident that Evans was about as gay friendly as they came. Mickey told him a few weeks later, when circumstances had made it almost necessary to do so, and it had paved the way for the two to become friends.

“Get the fuck off my car!” Evans called good-naturedly from across the parking lot. Mickey didn’t move, but Ian stood.

“This piece of junk is lucky to have my ass on it.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Evans laughed as he neared. “Have you seen his ass?” he directed at Ian.

Ian nodded slowly and Mickey grinned at him before he hopped off the car. Evans scooped him up in a hug then held a hand out for Ian. “Nice to officially meet you. Call me Darnell if you want, although Mickey never has.”

Ian shook his hand. “Ian. Nice to meet you too.”

Evans fished his key fob from his bag. “I was thinking we could head over to my place and catch a cab from there?” 

“You plannin’ on getting wasted?”

“Hey, it’s not every day my man gets voted onto the All-Star team,” Evans boasted as he wrapped an arm around Mickey’s shoulders. He spied the hickey on his neck and prodded at it. “What’s this? Have you been cheating on me again?” he joked, earning himself a congenial shove and a ‘fuck off’. “Is he prettier than me? Does he have a bigger dick?” he taunted.

“Yeah, both,” Mickey grunted but he couldn’t hide his smile.

Evans clutched his heart like the second baseman’s words pained him. He unlocked the car doors so the men could clamor inside; Mickey in the front and Ian in the back. Mickey was fiddling with the radio before the engine had even turned over. “We can throw back a few at my apartment before we head out,” Evans suggested. “Save some cash.”

“Head where?”

“Wherever you want. Some shitty little watering hole in the worst part of town I presume.”

Mickey jabbed at his arm and Evans laughed. 

“By the way, I asked Lockyer if he wanted to come out with us tonight,” he told them as he drove. Mickey side-eyed him and Evans held up a reassuring hand. “He’s not. I just thought maybe you two would want to clear the air.” Ian huffed from the backseat and Evans' eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. “I can guess why those two are fighting but I haven’t figured out how you’re involved.”

Ian’s mouth popped open but only air escaped. Mickey took it upon himself to explain with his usual brusqueness, “Lockyer thinks we’re fucking and figures that’s why I won’t fuck him.”

“Oh!” Evans exclaimed as he looked from Mickey to Ian’s reflection and back again. “Are you?”

“Fucking? Yeah, but that’s got nothin’ to do with Lockyer.”

“You two are fucking?” Evans reiterated in disbelief. He squinted at Mickey when the second baseman nodded. “And you hang out with him too?”

Mickey could understand why that would be confusing for someone who knew how he usually was with men. “Yeah, we hang out,” he confirmed.

“It’s some sort of friends with benefits situation?”

“No,” Mickey negated without elaborating.

“No?” Evans spluttered. “What then? You’re dating?”

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose. It should have occurred to him before now that Evans would be asking him questions he'd rather not answer. “Dating sounds weird, man. We don’t go on dates.”

“So, you’re like… together?!”

“Un huh,” Mickey confirmed. He glanced back at Ian to witness the sappy smile he knew would bloom on the redhead's face.

He hoped in vain that that was the end of the conversation, but Evans was still trying to wrap his head around the details. “How the fuck did that happen?” he wondered. “I’ve never seen you even remotely interested in a relationship. Hell, if I had a dollar for all the men you’ve left heartbroken I wouldn’t have to worry about making it to the big leagues.”

Mickey stared at the side of Evans head with a distinctly ‘shut the fuck up’ expression but the PawSox player paid him no mind. “Remember when you told me you were gay?” he asked, grinning.

“Yes, and we don’t need to talk about it,” Mickey advised in a tone that he expected would persuade Evans to not fucking talk about it.

Evans directed his words to Ian instead. “Mickey tried to ghost some undergrad but the guy was so hung up on him that he followed him home and camped outside our apartment. I assumed he was a fan with a few screws loose and wanted to call the police. Mickey didn’t want him talking to the cops, for obvious reasons, so he told me they’d been boning and I ended up pretending to be his boyfriend to scare the guy off.” He laughed and poked at Mickey’s leg. “How many times did we have to pull that ruse?”

Mickey shook his head at his oblivious friend and turned back to Ian; the redhead looked like he was trying to calculate whether he’d fit under the front seat. He tapped his knee and said, “He’s exaggerating,” when Ian met his eyes.

“Oh shit, sorry!” Evans placated. “I wasn’t thinking. This is just really, really strange for me.”

“It’s fine,” Ian assured him with a frail smile.

They were all mercifully liberated from the discussion when the car slowed and pulled into the parking lot of a small apartment complex. Mickey looked up through the car window at the nearby building; an old brownstone with black trim. Evans stopped the car and ushered them up the stairs and into his third floor unit. When the lights were switched on, Mickey promptly plopped himself onto a worn leather sofa and Ian followed.  
“Your roommate around?” he asked. 

“Nope. At his girlfriends.”

That was all the confirmation Mickey needed to feel secure about resting his hand on Ian’s thigh. It had been nearly ten hours since they’d had the opportunity to be together like this, ten long hours of pretending, and he was done. Ian didn’t hesitate to curl his fingers under his. 

Evans gawked like a schoolboy at their intertwined hands. “So fucking weird,” he muttered before he shook himself out of it. “Beer?” he inquired and they both nodded. 

He disappeared into the kitchen and Mickey took the opportunity to draw Ian to him; their lips meeting with an ease that came as naturally as breathing and felt just as vital. Ian’s tongue slipped into his mouth and Mickey’s hand constricted on his leg.

They separated slowly when Evans cleared his throat, their eyes in a heated lock that made the back of Mickey’s neck prickle. Evans held out a beer for each of them and the men emerged from the spell they’d cast over one another.

“Cheating right in front of me,” he scoffed, garnering a salute from Mickey’s middle finger. Evans snorted and tilted his beer towards them. “Cheers,” he said and tapped the necks of their bottles together. “To Mickey making the All-Star Team and proving, without a doubt, that he’s the best second baseman in the league.” He sat in the chair across from them and tipped his beer to his lips.

“There was doubt?” Mickey quipped. 

“Minimal,” Evans admitted. “Next stop is The Show, Mick. I’d bet money this time next year you’ll be in Travis’ spot, raking in 500K and living the life.”

Mickey grunted noncommittally, he was living in the moment after all, slammed back a mouthful of the beer Evans had given him and groaned. “The fuck is this?” He twisted the bottle so he could read the label. It was sickeningly hoppy and had such a bitter aftertaste he was reluctant to take a second sip.

“Craft beer, it’s all the rage,” Evans told him with a wiggle of his brow. “I figured that swill you usually drink wouldn’t be fancy enough for you anymore.” He laughed and dodged the bottle cap Mickey threw at him. 

Ian took a sip of his own and winced. “It tastes like liquid dirt with a hint of dog piss.”

“It’s terrible,” Evans conceded. “But it’s all I’ve got besides whiskey.”

“You’ve got whiskey and you gave us this shit?” Mickey griped. He set the bottle on the coffee table and gestured for Evans to get back to the kitchen. Evans obliged and returned with the bottle and three glasses.

He poured them each a few shots worth and handed them over. “We’re out of ice,” he apologized. “And mix.”

Mickey shrugged. Whiskey neat was fine by him. He upended the glass and poured half of it down his throat, intent on getting sloshed tonight as well; making the All-Star team did seem worthy of it.

“So, you just joined the Bisons a few weeks back, right?” Evans asked Ian. “Your first start was against us?” Ian nodded and Evans let out an impressed rush of air. “Your heater is unhittable, man. We barely got on base yesterday.”

“Hot, right?” Mickey chimed in before he remembered who he was talking to. He waved Evans off. “Never mind, just trust me, it was really fucking hot.”

Ian smiled at him and bent for a slow, sweet peck on his mouth.

Mickey cringed against his lips. “You taste like that fucked up beer. Drink your whiskey.” 

Ian took a swig and returned for another kiss. “That better?”

“Mmmhmm,” Mickey hummed. It reminded him of the first time he’d tasted liquor on Ian and how much he’d wanted him that night. His free hand found the back of his neck and pulled him in for more. Ian ran his palm up Mickey’s leg to his hip as they kissed.

Evans leaned forward in his chair, fascinated by their canoodling. “I feel like I’m in a parallel universe,” he remarked. Their lips popped off each other when he spoke, remembering that they had an audience. “Hey, don’t let me bother you. Gay porn’s not usually my thing but I could probably get into it.” 

They forced their eyes off each other and downed the rest of their drinks. “Hurry the fuck up and chug your whiskey or you’re gonna end up with jizz on your sofa,” Mickey warned Evans.

He shrugged. “Not like it’d be the first time.”

Ian frowned and eyed the leather uncomfortably as Evans laughed. There was nowhere else to sit so Mickey poured them another liberal drink. Evans raised his glass to them in silent challenge and Mickey accepted with a nod. They all gulped their liquor as quickly as they could and slammed their empty glasses on the coffee table. 

“Mickey won,” Ian decided.

“He sucks your dick; of course you’d say that.”

Mickey’s mind went directly to their hotel shower that morning and evidently Ian’s did too. The redhead sent a sexy grin his way that propelled him to his feet. “Alright, time to go,” Mickey barked. There was only so much drunken self-control he could muster with Ian in that tight black tee; he really didn’t want to take his dick out in front of his friend. “Bring the whiskey,” he ordered and left to wait outside.

They polished off the bottle in the ten minutes it took for their cab to arrive and crawled into the backseat with no idea where they were going. “Just head towards the bar district,” Evans instructed the driver; they could decide once they got there.

The cab cruised through the dark streets until a sea of lights appeared ahead. “Is that a Midway?” Ian wondered excitedly.

“Yeah, looks like it,” Evans concurred. 

Ian squinted into the dark. “The Ferris wheel is moving. It’s still open!”

Mickey whipped his head towards the redhead. “Noooo,” he preempted.

Ian was practically bouncing in his seat but it was Evans that pleaded, “C’mon, Mick, it’d be fun!”

Mickey gaped at Evans and Ian in turn. “Are you two fuckin’ nuts? Why would we go to a Midway?!”

*** 

And that was how he ended up in the last place he’d rather be on a Monday night with Ian looking sexy as fuck to his left and a lone asshole to his right; riding in the very Ferris wheel that the redhead had just about wet his pants over in the cab. He would have happily shut down Evans but history had proven that he was shockingly incapable of doing the same with Ian. 

He sighed and gazed out over the awe inspiring view of strip malls, fast food joints and gas stations. He thought that maybe he could see the bar district in the distance. It looked nice.

“Stop being miserable,” Ian insisted. “You want me to buy you some cotton candy?”

Mickey considered it and concluded it was the least Ian could do for dragging him here. “Yeah,” he decided. “The blue shit.”

“Okay,” he smiled and leaned in to brush their lips together.

Mickey proved to be a little more agreeable when he had blue raspberry floss melting on his tongue. He followed behind Ian and Evans without complaint and listened to them bond over their love for all things Midway. 

Mickey was granted reprieve from the Tilt-A-Whirl so he could finish his treat and they had no chance in hell of getting him on the Round-Up; he was certain he’d seen a video of that death trap snapping off its hydraulic arm and hurtling through the air. Ian used his powers of persuasion to goad him onto the Gravitron, however, and as funny as it was to see Ian plastered to the wall with his red hair splayed, the vomiting Mickey did behind it afterward pretty much negated any enjoyment he’d had. He got another blue raspberry cotton candy out of that debacle, at least, and a pass from the rest of the rides. 

Evans dropped an arm onto Mickey’s shoulders when he and Ian disembarked from the Paratrooper. “I like him,” he slurred. “Now I see how he got you to toss your no teammates rule so quick. I’d definitely want to fuck him if I was gay.”

“I can hear you,” Ian alerted him.

“But he might make you too happy,” he continued as if Ian wasn’t there. “You didn’t call me an asshole once tonight, let alone anything worse. You know how I look forward to that.”

“I didn’t? ‘Cause I was definitely thinkin’ it.”

“Oh, okay, good. That’s good,” he mumbled. He turned Mickey so they were facing each other and moved his hands to his shoulders. “Mick, have you-“ 

“I’m going to the carnival games,” Ian interjected, realizing he might overhear shit Evans hadn’t intended for his ears. “Meet me there?”

Mickey nodded and Ian headed away from them.

Evans picked up his sentence like Ian hadn’t spoken, “-really thought about this? There’s a reason you don’t fuck around with teammates, you know, and you two are doing way more than that.”

Mickey groaned at the commencement of the conversation he really hadn’t wanted to have “Yeah, I’ve thought about it, man, that’s all I do.”

“You’re the most determined motherfucker I know, Mick, and you’re at the finish line. You’re risking too much for a guy you hardly know.”

Mickey was wasted, trying to live in the moment and really looking forward to going back to the hotel and getting fucked. He didn’t want to hear this right now. Or ever. He tried to discourage it from continuing by saying nothing.

“If it came down to it, you’d choose baseball, right?”

Mickey paused long enough before he answered that Evans shook his shoulders a little. “Yeah, I’d choose baseball,” he replied. He would, if it came to that. He was sure he would. 

Evans exhaled heavily into the air between them. “I hope it works out for you, man,” he told him sincerely. “I just don’t see how it can.” Evans eyes shifted from solemn to intrigued in an instant. “Oh, hot damn, my future wife just walked by. Go find your man. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” 

Mickey started towards the carnival games with Evans’ unwelcome words ricocheting around his mind. His own were there too; _I’d choose baseball_ , and he hated them; hated how much he hated them. When he found Ian, and the redhead grinned up at him with that smile that he had only for him, he hated them even more.

The carnival games were all but deserted so it had been easy to spot the redhead sitting at the Shoot Out the Star BB gun booth. After their exchange of smiles, Ian stared down the sight and pulled the trigger only to have a splattering of pellets spew out so fast that he was through his ammo in seconds. The paper star he’d been aiming at sported a few lonely holes but was otherwise intact. Not enough to win the game, unfortunately, where the goal was to remove the star in its entirety.

He laid more money on the counter and the carny proceeded to reload his gun. He repeated the same process with the same result. “I might be too drunk for this,” he worried.

“Why don’t you try one of those ball tossing ones? Fuck knows you’re good at that shit when you’re drunk.”

“Those booths don’t have this guy,” he explained, pointing to a stuffed Mickey Mouse knock off that hung above them.

Mickey immediately understood the sentiment but the toy was such a poor imitation of the real Mickey Mouse he scoffed. “You want that thing?”

Ian laid another bill in front of the carny and waited for his gun to be loaded. “Yeah, I want him, why?”

“He’s fucked, man. His ears are too small, his left eye is sewn half way down his cheek and he’s got a bare ass. Mickey’s supposed to have red shorts, not a red shirt.” He didn’t comment on his subpar stitching or the thin material he’d been constructed of.

“I think he’s perfect,” Ian persisted stubbornly then quirked a playful smile at the brunet. “Besides, I prefer my Mickeys pantless.” 

Mickey laughed as Ian crouched to peer through the sight of his freshly loaded gun.

“The sights on these things are janky,” Mickey warned. “You gotta look down the barrel instead.” Ian made the adjustment and pulled the trigger but fared no better than he had in his previous attempts. “Pull the trigger slower,” Mickey advised. “Get a feel for where the pellets are hitting and then start cutting out the star with short bursts.” He and his brothers would do this kind of thing for hours on end when they were growing up.

Ian stared up at him blankly. He shuffled over so Mickey could take his spot. “You do it,” he requested. He laid more money in front of the carny and they waited for him to reload the pellets and paper target.

Mickey bent to the gun; it’d been a long, long time since he’d had one in his hands, but as soon as he felt the cool metal under his fingers, his instincts took over. He did exactly what he’d described to Ian; sighting with the barrel, squeezing the trigger ever so slowly, sending tiny spurts of pellets in a circle around the star. It was a game of patience more than anything, and he had that in spades. The star erupted from the paper with his last shot and Ian nearly jumped onto his back.

The carny handed the Mickey Mouse down to them and Ian beamed drunkenly at the pitiable figure in his hand.

“He’s missing his tail too,” Mickey observed.

“Shut up,” Ian ordered sweetly. He slid an arm around Mickey’s waist and inched closer, his eyes never leaving the brunets. He tilted his head to the side, a little coy. “I love him.”

Mickey knew next to nothing about love but there was no question it was staring him tenderly in the face. He swallowed, certain he wasn’t breathing, sure his voice wouldn’t work when he spoke, but it did. “You love him? You just met him.”

Ian shrugged a single shoulder and let a gentle smile play on his lips. “It was pretty much love at first sight,” he explained, his gaze still intently on Mickey’s. “You think that would scare him, if I told him that?”

Mickey glanced at the doll. “Look at this fucker,” he directed softly. “He’s obviously been through some serious shit. You think a little love’s gonna scare him?” He looked boldly back at Ian.

“What about a lot? What if it was like a… a _tsunami_ of love.”

“He could take it.” He could. It was losing it he was worried about.

“That’s good,” Ian breathed. He pressed his forehead against Mickey’s, “because I am so fucking in love with him.”

Mickey only had a second to sop that up before a bang from the booth startled them apart. The carny was pulling on the overhead rollup door and eyeing them like they were fucking nuts. “I’ve got to close up shop here, mind backing up?” 

“Oh, sorry,” Ian replied. “Thanks. For this,” he said, holding up the Mickey. 

The carny shook his head and rolled the door down without saying another word.

Mickey chuckled and cradled Ian’s face in his hands but Ian was stiff when Mickey tried to bring their mouths together. “I really wanna kiss you but you were throwing up like twenty minutes ago,” he reminded him.

“I ate a bag of cotton candy since then.”

Ian contemplated it briefly but relented and allowed himself to be drawn closer. A hand slipped into Mickey’s hair and the other held the stuffed Mickey at his back. He smiled before their lips met. “I wasn’t really talking about the toy a minute ago,” he confessed.

“Yeah, I got that,” Mickey whispered back. He almost laughed at how adorable the redhead was but kissed him instead, slow and warm and sure in the colorful lights. 

Evans caught up with them a moment later and they called a cab; the fair was shutting down for the night. The PawSox player stole the Mickey toy from Ian’s hands and looked it over. More like “Mockey” he decided and Mickey snickered when Ian’s eyes rolled. Their hotel was the cabs first stop but, with other business to attend to first, they got dropped off at the drugstore across the street and bid Evans adieu. His parting words were a request to Ian to give it to Mickey good and hard that night in the hopes that it would slow him down around the bases the next day. Ian assured him he would.

“Okay, so what are we getting? Do you have a preference?” Ian asked when they’d stopped in front of the display of condoms and lube.

Mickey couldn’t pull his eyes away from Ian long enough to look at the shelf; the bright fluorescent lights were doing outrageous things to the color of his hair.

“What?” Ian asked when he noticed him staring.

“Your hair, man. It’s insane under these lights.”

Ian cringed and patted at his head self-consciously.

“No, it’s really fucking cool,” Mickey complimented.

Predictably, he couldn’t resist bringing his hands up to it and a grinning Ian ducked down to his mouth when he did. They kissed in the middle of the brightly lit aisle without a second thought; one evening of liberty in the company of others, a little alcohol and suddenly their inhibitions were forgotten. If Mickey’s eye caught the shape of another customer pass by near the endcap when they parted, he disregarded it, too intoxicated with whiskey and Ian to care.

Ian turned back to the shelf and inspected the row of lube critically. “These bottles are so fucking small,” he complained as he hefted a tube. “We need more than this. Where’s the family sized lube?”

Mickey snorted beside him. “Family sized lube,” he mocked and then threw his head back as he dissolved into a fit of laughter. “That’s so fucked up,” he spluttered. Ian watched him lose it until he lost it himself and the two were grabbing at each other for balance. Mickey wiped at his eyes and snatched a bottle from the row. “C’mon,” he managed as his giggles tapered off. 

Ian fumbled through the self checkout while Mickey unabashedly perused the gossip rags and then they swayed together on their short walk back to the hotel.

Locked inside the privacy of their room, the men could at last unleash the desire they’d being suppressing all night. The door clicked behind them and Ian stumbled to the bed with Mickey in his clutches, reclined against the headboard and tugged him onto his lap. His mouth leapt from his neck to his lips and back again as he tore his shirt over his head. Mickey had Ian’s bottom lip in his teeth when the redhead mumbled, nearly unintelligibly, “What’s your number?”

Mickey’s inebriated mind doubted that he’d heard him right. He released Ian’s lip and grunted, “Huh?”

“Your number. How many guys have you slept with?” Ian repeated. He was a little out of breath and looking up at Mickey with his Bambi eyes rather than the blown out ones he’d been sporting a moment ago.

Mickey’s forehead creased in confusion. “You wanna talk about this now?”

“Ballpark. Like, a lot?”

Apparently they were talking about this now. He sat back a little on Ian’s lap. “Define a lot.”

“I don’t know, thirty?”

Mickey blinked and scratched at the stubble on his neck. “This seems like a bad idea.”

“So more than thirty. Forty?”

“Maybe we can talk about this after?” he appealed.

“More than Forty?!” 

“I didn’t say that.”

“Fifty?!”

“Your voice going up an octave every time you speak is confirming to me that this is fucking stupid.”

“Sixty?!” Ian’s hands clenched harder on his hips with every increment.

“Stop.”

“You want to know my number?”

“No.”

“Just tell me yours. I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to talk about this stuff,” Ian insisted.

Mickey sighed. “Look, it’s not like I kept track. I don’t even wanna think about anybody before you,” he swore. It wasn’t just lip service, he meant it, and Ian thawed before his eyes.

“I don’t want to think about anybody before you either,” he replied.

“Sex was whatever,” Mickey continued. “I never gave a shit. It's different with us.”

“I know.”

“I’d be more bothered if you’d been into a guy half as much as I'm into you than I would be if you’d fucked a hundred guys.”

“Same.”

“Good, so can we drop it?” Mickey tried. He closed in, intent on continuing where they’d left off.

“Seventy?”

“Christ,” Mickey huffed and sat back again. “you want me to tally it up right now instead of fucking you? I can sit here and think about every dick that’s ever been up my ass. Then, when I’m done that, I’ll think about all the asses my dick has been in.” He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and began to count, ticking each off on his fingers as he went.

Ian grabbed at his hands to stop him. “Okay, you’ve made your point.”

“Good, ‘cause I only wanna think about the dick that’s _about_ to be in my ass,” he said and Ian grinned. He drew a few distracted kisses from Ian’s lips before the redhead was mumbling again.

“Have you topped a lot of guys?”

Mickey pulled back abruptly. “Does it matter? I don’t even like topping.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “You must like it a little. Would you top me?”

“Yeah, I guess, if you wanted me to,” Mickey relented but his tone implied he was not interested in doing that in the slightest.

“Maybe I should try it sometime.”

Mickey’s eyes widened. “Wait, have you never?” he asked and Ian shook his head. There was a long pause while Mickey processed that. “There is no fucking way we’re doing it then,” he decided.

“What? Why?”

“What if you like it more than topping?” 

“It's not possible for me to like it more than I like fucking you.” 

“We can't risk that.”

“You just can’t get enough of my dick,” Ian chuckled.

“Exactly,” Mickey agreed. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Maybe it'd make me a better top. If I know how it feels.”

“There's no room for improvement.”

Ian tilted his head. “Yeah?” he asked, his hands were warm as they smoothed over Mickey’s back.

“Yeah,” Mickey assured him and leaned in to kiss him sweetly. “You're the best,” he cooed and kissed him again. “I know because I did an exhaustive, nationwide search.”

Ian laughed despite himself. “You’re such a little shit,” he scolded and lurched forward with a smirking Mickey in his arms. He deposited him on his back and restrained his hands above his head. “You’re mine now,” he informed him sternly.

Mickey smiled up at him. “All yours.”

“Your ass. Your mouth. Your cock. Mine.”

“My heart too, man. Everything.”

Ian shook his head at him but couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his lips. “That was smooth,” he praised.

“Right?” Mickey concurred proudly. “You like that?”

Ian ducked into his neck, “Yeah, I like that,” he laughed, the rush of air he expelled giving rise to goose bumps on Mickey’s flesh. Mickey finally felt the tickle of his lips as they began to move. Ian released his hands and Mickey slid them to his back and under his shirt, pressing him closer as he searched out the muscles he loved to trace. They were getting back on track at last.

Ian suddenly lifted his head. “You ever had a threesome?”

Mickey pinched his eyes shut. “I'm about to have a fuckin' onesome,” he griped.

“It's a yes or no question, Mickey.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows but said nothing and Ian interpreted it as an affirmative.

“Was it fun?”

“The fuck? Now who’s the goddamned masochist?” Mickey was exasperated. “I haven’t had a threesome.”

Ian slid his fingers into Mickey’s hair and watched them card through the dark strands. “I guess what Evans said earlier bothered me a little.”

“Really? You don't seem bothered,” Mickey snarked. He pressed his hands to either side of Ian’s face until the redhead’s eyes met his. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

“I fucking hate the thought of you with anyone else,” he confessed soberly, his features knotted with the pain the very notion brought him. “I want to be your last. I want you to be my last.”

“Ian,” Mickey sighed.

“Do you want that?” he queried softly.

“I’m ruined, man, of course I want that.” The last thing he wanted was to go back to nameless, emotionless hook-ups with men he couldn’t care less about. He just wished he could rid himself of the voice that told him that they were kidding themselves; that there was too much to overcome, that this discussion wouldn’t matter, nor would any other they had about their future. He kept those thoughts to himself, too drunk and horny for that conversation.

Ian’s lips twitched into a tentative smile. “Okay.”

“Good. Now can you please use your mouth for somethin’ besides talking?”

Ian laughed quietly and sat up, dragging Mickey with him. He coaxed him back onto his lap so that they were in almost the same position as earlier but Ian’s arms were wrapped tightly around him as he gazed up. “I want you like this,” he whispered before he fulfilled Mickey’s request and put his mouth to better use.

“After all that, you’re gonna make me do all the work too?” Mickey teased.

“Thought we were done talking,” Ian reminded him smugly.

Mickey chuckled and grabbed Ian’s shirt to pull it up and off. He let his hands fall to his chest and skim over the dusting of auburn hair that sprouted there. Ian closed his eyes and sighed, his unrest melting away under Mickey’s touch. They could do this for each other, Mickey knew; temporarily soothe their concerns away. He’d come to rely on it.

Mickey tugged Ian’s head back and bent to glide his lips along his throat to his mouth. His hips rolled of their own will and he breathed in Ian’s strangled groan. Their mouths pressed roughly against each other, growing more demanding as their bodies rocked together. Ian’s hands slipped between them to work open Mickey’s belt and jeans. “Take them off,” he requested and they separated long enough to pull their bottoms off and for Mickey to grab the lube.

Ian prepped him, his forehead resting against Mickey’s clavicle and his breath blowing hot on his chest, as Mickey hovered over his lap and leisurely stroked their shafts together. When his fingers slid out and he raised his face to Mickey’s, Mickey plunged into his mouth as he steered himself onto his dick; yielding to every inch until he was fully seated.

_This _, he thought. This is what he’d been waiting all day for. It hadn’t been sex. It was this connection. This feeling he’d only ever experienced with Ian; one he was sure he’d spend the rest of his life chasing if the redhead were to slip from his grasp. If Ian understood how utterly different this was for him, he wouldn’t have an ounce of jealousy for any man Mickey had been with in his past.__

__He began to move and watched as Ian’s eyes fed on him; full of equal parts lust and affection. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he growled though Mickey thought maybe the words had escaped his own mouth because Ian was no less than beautiful too. Ian’s hands cupped his ass and moved with him, encouraging him to lift higher and sink deeper, his biceps bulging as his teeth drifted over Mickey’s skin._ _

__Mickey ground his hips down into him, over and over, drawing almost as many groans from the bed as he did Ian. Their grip on each other was unyielding; their fingers digging in everywhere, keeping their chests flush as Mickey rose and fell. Ian began to thrust in sync with his plunges, doggedly chasing his heat, determined to get as much of himself inside as he could. Mickey wrapped his arms around his neck, bent his face to his hair, and held onto the muscles in his shoulders as he let himself be driven down onto Ian’s lap again and again with force, his cock so high and hard inside him, like riding lightning, that it stole his breath._ _

__When Ian tired, he slammed him down one last time and pushed his fingers into his hair. Their eyes met and then their mouths, as the brunet resumed his rhythm, bringing them closer to the end. Ian’s hands roamed his skin, digging in here and there, but always gravitating back to his ass, relentless in their worship; just as his mouth never left Mickey’s flesh, tasting, biting, and licking wherever it could reach as his dick massaged all his pleasure points. He could come like this, Mickey realized, and seized the headboard behind Ian’s head for better leverage. He pressed him flush to the wood and forced his lips apart with his tongue._ _

__Ian was rapt beneath him, nearly lost. “Oh God, keep doing that,” he groaned as if there was a chance in hell Mickey would stop. Ian gasped into his neck as he came; throbbing so fierce and deep inside him that Mickey felt it in his gut. He let his own climax engulf him seconds later, his mouth at Ian’s temple, his nose in his hair. His hands fell from the headboard onto Ian’s shoulders as it faded and he kissed the skin under his lips. They were still for awhile, as their hearts slowed, enjoying the sensation of their sweat-slick skin touching in so many places._ _

__When Ian raised his head, Mickey gazed down at him, at his sex tumbled hair and glowing face, and wanted, so badly, to tell him that he loved him too. It seemed cliché, though, to say it after sex so he held his tongue and just trailed his fingers through his hair. He stayed where he was, with Ian laying tender kisses to his chest and neck, even after he felt the redhead’s dick soften and slide out._ _

“My cum is dripping out of your ass onto my lap,” Ian muttered. His voice was wrecked and Mickey savored it. 

“I’ll get the cloth,” Mickey offered. Ian’s chest was painted in cum in addition to his legs. Gay sex was gratifyingly messy. 

__When he returned from the bathroom with the cloth, Ian had revived enough to wipe himself down with it. He tossed it and held his arms out for Mickey, “I wanna cuddle,” he requested._ _

__Mickey scrambled closer in order to be enveloped. He lay on his back with an arm behind his head and Ian nuzzled into his neck. “We only have one more day on the road,” Mickey noted._ _

__“I don’t wanna think about it,” Ian mumbled._ _

__“Maybe you should come to Columbus with me.”_ _

__Ian raised his head, surprised. “To the All-Star game?”_ _

__“Yeah, we play there right after the break anyway, you’d just be a few days early. I’ll have my own hotel room at the Cloverleaf.” They had six upcoming games at home followed by three days off with the All-Star game on the third day._ _

__“How would I get there?”_ _

__Mickey shrugged. “We can figure it out.”_ _

__“What would we tell people?_ _

__His hand glided over Ian’s shoulder blades, reassuring them both. “We can figure that out too.” He wanted to find a way. Suddenly Ian being there was important to him._ _

__“I’d love to,” Ian hummed and sealed it with a gentle kiss. When he raised his head, an impish grin was plastered on his lips. “You gotta bring the jock strap back here tomorrow.”_ _

__“It’ll be fuckin’ disgusting after the game,” Mickey complained._ _

__“I don’t care. It’s our last day together, like this, for awhile. Please,” he begged. “I need it.”_ _

__“What is your fascination with that thing?”_ _

“It’s your ass _in_ it that I’m fascinated with.” Ian sighed longingly and fell back into the pillows. “It’s like… it’s like your ass is this perfect marshmallow, right? So fucking plump and sweet but then you add the jockstrap and it’s like wrapping it in chocolate and graham crackers. It makes it even _better _. And my dick, it’s like the stick that gets to roast the whole fucking thing.”__

____

____

____

____

____Mickey regarded the babbling dork seriously. “You need a twelve step program.”_ _ _ _

____Ian lifted himself over Mickey so he could grin down at him. “Hi, my name is Ian and I’m an assaholic,” he recited. When Mickey laughed, Ian held up a finger. “But only for one specific brand of ass.”_ _ _ _

____Ian’s hand skidded down his chest, over his hip and to his back, searching out his addiction. His eyes had that predatory glean in them again; the one that Mickey knew would get him railed and bitten. He stopped him before he could start. “It can only take so much in one day,” he warned. “You’re an animal.”_ _ _ _

____“You and me baby ain’t nothin’ but mammals,” Ian chanted. Mickey groaned and clasped his shoulders so he could push him back onto the mattress. He swung his legs off the bed and headed for the shower. “I’m pretty sure we don’t do it like they do on the discovery channel,” Ian mused as his fingers strummed his chest thoughtfully. “They should though, their ratings would skyrocket.”_ _ _ _

____“You planning on talkin’ to yourself all night or are you comin’?” Mickey called before he stepped into the tub._ _ _ _

____Ian was there a split second later with Mickey back in his arms. They had one more day and weren’t about to waste any time._ _ _ _

____***_ _ _ _

____Their morning was filled with lazy morning sex followed by impulsive morning shower sex. They rode the high of that down to the breakfast buffet where even their annoying teammates couldn’t dampen Mickey’s mood. This living in the moment thing was the shit as far as he was concerned._ _ _ _

____He had a great game, just as fast on the bases as always, and was in the locker room envisioning his night with Ian when Coach Meacham approached. Mickey had been leaning against Ian’s locker, waiting for him to finish getting dressed so they could leave._ _ _ _

____“Mickey, I need to speak with you,” Meacham said, his tone was not his usual timbre and Mickey and Ian exchanged anxious glances. Mickey followed along behind him feeling a little like he’d been called to the principal’s office._ _ _ _

____Meacham led him to the visiting coach’s room and sat, gesturing for Mickey to take the seat across from him._ _ _ _

____“I had a craving for Hot Cheetos last night,” Meacham informed him._ _ _ _

____Mickey narrowed his eyes at the peculiar start to their exchange. “Okay,” he replied._ _ _ _

____“I walked over to that drugstore across the street from the hotel,” he explained and Mickey’s pulse began to race. “I was checking out when I saw you and Gallagher come in.” He gave Mickey a moment to absorb the significance of what he was saying. “Should I continue?”_ _ _ _

____Mickey shook his head meekly and tried to remember how to breathe; Meecham’s handful of words had knocked the air out of his lungs more thoroughly than any punch he’d ever taken._ _ _ _

____“You can do whatever you want in your personal life, but you two are on my turf. I won’t have anything jeopardizing this team or your career. I don’t have to tell you what a goddamned shitstorm you’d unleash if your teammates found out about this, right?”_ _ _ _

“No,” Mickey wheezed, finding his voice after an arduous intake of air. He stared at the floor as the room swirled. This was it. 

“The Jays have put six years worth of time and money into your development. You’re meant to be the future of that team, son. Gallagher’s good, but he’s been here a few weeks. I’d cut him tomorrow without blinking an eye.” He tilted towards him. “Mickey,” he said gravely, “I’ve seen prospects as good as you run out of this league for this sort of thing before. Teams don’t want this kind of trouble. Right now it’s between you and me, make sure it stays that way.” 

____Mickey’s throat was too tight to respond. He’d been so happy this morning, this was surreal._ _ _ _

____“I’m switching him out of your room on the next road trip.” Another wallop. Mickey was getting clobbered with no way to fight back. He pressed his palms to his eyes and slid them to his temples. He knew he was doing an awful job of hiding how shattered he was. Meacham studied him through dour eyes. “It might be best if I we find a team in the PCL for him.”_ _ _ _

____Mickey fought the urge to crumple with that blow and surged to his feet instead. “Don’t,” he begged. If Ian got traded to a team in the Pacific Coast League he’d never see him. Their only opportunity would be in the off-season; a few short months a year between the end of the playoffs and the beginning of spring training._ _ _ _

____“Then end it. Now.”_ _ _ _

____He nodded curtly._ _ _ _

____“Good.” Meacham paused, appearing to debate whether he was satisfied with Mickey’s assurance. “You can go,” he decided. “Send Gallagher in on your way out.”_ _ _ _

____Mickey let his body lead him out of the room. Ian approached him with a warm smile that Mickey couldn’t return. “Coach wants you,” he choked out, still dazed, and Ian’s forehead creased with worry._ _ _ _

____“What’s wrong?” he asked._ _ _ _

____“Just go,” Mickey plead; he couldn’t crumble in front of his teammates._ _ _ _

____“Okay,” he whispered. His eyes stayed on Mickey for a beat and then he brushed past him._ _ _ _

____Mickey made it to his locker, somehow, grabbed his bag, somehow, called a cab, somehow, and chain-smoked his way to the street corner near the park where he’d requested his cab meet him. He needed to get away before he saw Ian’s broken face._ _ _ _

____One careless mistake and it was over. He’d always known they existed on borrowed time, but this was too soon._ _ _ _

____His mind spun but no matter how he figured it, he couldn’t see a path forward for them, not one that included their careers anyway._ _ _ _

If Ian was traded they were over. If he was cut, there was no guarantee he’d be picked up somewhere with Meacham spreading the word about him; and if he wasn’t picked up… Mickey didn’t even want to contemplate that. He just wanted to keep him here, with him, where they could still be _something_ to each other. They couldn’t throw their careers away and he couldn’t lose him altogether. 

____He held his composure until he got back to the hotel. Once he was through that door, though, all his strength left him and he sat on the couch with his head in his hands, too fraught to even practice his pacing. Ian came in moments later, or hours, he had no idea. He quietly sat on the bed across from the sofa and waited for Mickey to speak._ _ _ _

____Mickey tried to look at him but he could hardly see, too many tears swam in his eyes, an ocean of pain. He looked up at the ceiling in an effort to stop them from streaming down his face. “We,” a quivering sigh escaped his burning throat, “we have to stop.”_ _ _ _

____“We can wait until the off-season.”_ _ _ _

____“If he finds out, you’d be traded or cut. You could end up on the other side of the country.”_ _ _ _

____“I’ll quit.”_ _ _ _

____Mickey lowered his head and gaped at him. “Quit baseball?” he barked. “No you fucking won’t. I don’t want you to do that for me.”_ _ _ _

____“For us.”_ _ _ _

____“No.” Mickey shook his head. “That’s not an option.”_ _ _ _

____“Mickey, this can’t be it. There has to be a way.” His voice cracked as he fought back his own despair._ _ _ _

“There was never a way!” Mickey practically yelled, desperate for Ian to understand. 

____“We just need to think.”_ _ _ _

“Ian,” Mickey said, less harsh, “we can’t risk it anymore. We can’t just throw everything away.” He thought of the endless hours of practice, the years worth of games, the sacrifices; not just that he’d made, but that Ian had. It couldn’t be for nothing. He thought back to the fair the night before, how comfortable he’d been with a gun in his hands, how ingrained that life was in him. He was almost free. He was almost at the finish line, just like Evans had said. He couldn’t turn back now. Neither of them could. He was choosing baseball like he’d always known he would and now he had to find a way to live with that. 

“We can come out. Together,” Ian suggested, grasping at anything he could. 

____“How’s that gonna help?!”_ _ _ _

____He shook his head. “I don’t know.” His hands pulled mercilessly at his hair and he stood. “I don’t know. I need to think!”_ _ _ _

Mickey rose from the sofa. He didn’t want to think. The last fucking thing he wanted to do was think; to waste more precious time. He started stripping off his clothes as Ian watched him through puzzled wet eyes. Down to his underwear, he honed in on the redhead. He tore at Ian’s shirt, his fingers scrambling and uncoordinated, just wanting it off. Ian helped, his eyes still uncertain, but they got it over his head and Mickey’s useless hands switched to pawing at the waist of his pants. He gave up when it was clear Ian was taking them off, turned to the bed and tore down the covers. He lay there, his palms back in his eyes, willing the tears to stay in their ducts. 

Ian joined him, hesitantly bent to his lips, and Mickey persuaded him further until they were chest against chest. It was selfish, he knew it, but he needed him; needed his weight on top of him, needed to watch his face as he took him in, needed to feel _his_ man moving inside of him. One more night of comfort and then he would let him go. 

____Ian’s fingers skimmed his sides with a great, thirsty heat, and trembling and tenderness so agonizing Mickey thought his heart would burst before they were done. He tugged off Mickey’s underwear and then his own and Mickey loathed every inch of space between them while he did. He reached for lube, slicked himself up and pushed in, with no prep, just knowing that that was what Mickey craved._ _ _ _

____Mickey wrapped his legs around him so he couldn’t get away and the room filled with the sound of breathing and bodies joining as Ian thrust slow and measured. They kissed more gently and held one another tighter but gazed at each other less often; too raw and too close to breaking to keep their eyes open for long. They let their other senses guide them and it was absurd how good it felt; that no matter if they were fast, hard, deep, frantic, or long and slow like this, it was just the right thing. As much as they wanted to prolong it, too soon the friction built and they neared their crests and there was nothing, besides stopping, that they could do to contain it._ _ _ _

____Mickey’s hand slid up the back of Ian’s neck and into his hair as his orgasm rolled up, warm and all-consuming; gathering momentum until it overtook him with a rush that forced Ian’s name from his lips._ _ _ _

____Ian propelled his hips harder in the pursuit of his own release and Mickey worked with him, needing his cum, worshiping his dick, squeezing his muscles on every stroke. He came with his cheek pressed against Mickey’s, his shuddering breath quivering in his ear. He stayed motionless for a long moment after, catching his breath and basking in Mickey’s firm embrace. Mickey was in no hurry to have him move away, he never was but especially not now, so he kept his eyes shut and tightened his grip, relishing the feel of Ian pressing him into the bed._ _ _ _

____Ian eventually raised his head and regarded him wordlessly as he stroked his temple with his thumb. His eyes still glistened and it tore at Mickey’s insides. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “That wasn’t our last time,” he vowed._ _ _ _

____Mickey didn’t believe that. There were too many obstacles; Ian would find someone else long before they could ever be together. His own eyes welled so full that his vision distorted and he could barely see Ian above him. He tried desperately to blink it back but a single tear escaped and then another. Ian wiped them away until he couldn’t keep up. “Stop,” he whispered but Mickey couldn’t and he felt Ian’s tears fall and mix with his own on his cheeks._ _ _ _

____Ian soothed his lips with a kiss and burrowed into his neck as he fought to regain his control. Mickey clung to him, heart to heart, riding the wave of their grief until the worst had subsided. It was Ian that recovered first, buoyed by his determination to hold onto hope, and he rose to his elbows so he could peer down at Mickey. “You’re still mine,” he told him stubbornly but there was so much fear in his eyes._ _ _ _

____“Yeah,” Mickey agreed because that was one thing he knew would never change._ _ _ _

____Their lips melded together in a final salty kiss and when Ian rolled away to fetch a cloth, Mickey didn’t budge, his body tied down by invisible threads. He hardly registered Ian smoothing the cotton across his skin and tucking himself in beside him. He wanted to memorize this feeling of being in Ian’s arms but he couldn’t focus. Nothing had ever hurt like this; his brutal past hadn’t prepared him for this kind of horrible, hollow ache._ _ _ _

____The night passed like a fog filled with Ian’s caresses and quiet oaths. But just like their love making, it was over too soon. They had to be up at 4AM for a 5AM departure and as much as they dreaded the morning, they couldn’t hold back sleep._ _ _ _

____Mickey woke to his alarm blaring and Ian constricted around him so tightly it was almost suffocating in its intensity. He didn’t know if he was relieved or dismayed when the redhead’s grip let up as he stretched to turn off the incessant buzzing. He grumbled about how fucking early it was and snuggled back into him with only a little less ferocity, no more eager to start the day than Mickey was. After all, there was nothing to look forward to besides a long trip back to Buffalo, a game against Norfolk under Meacham’s watchful eye, and a lonely night in their own beds; an inaugural groundhog day of pretending that they weren’t completely and utterly destroyed._ _ _ _

____Ian’s lips sought his a moment later and they indulged in a drowsy kiss; an unspoken agreement that nothing would be different between them until they left that room. But it was different; in how silent they were as they held each other and how defeated their shoulders slumped as they packed their things._ _ _ _

____When the time drew near to head out, Mickey snatched Ian’s favorite hoodie from where it lay on top of his bag and put it on with no intention of ever giving it back. Ian said nothing about it, not even as he played with the drawstrings and crowded Mickey against the wall to kiss him. Or perhaps that was his way of saying something._ _ _ _

____Mickey heaved a sigh when he glanced over Ian’s shoulder at the clock on the bedside table. They had to go. Ian could see it on his face and his hold turned rigid. “Mickey-,“ he began._ _ _ _

____“I love you,” Mickey said softly, heedlessly, but without regret. He’d never said it before but it rolled off his tongue._ _ _ _

____Ian managed a sad smile and Mickey wished he’d told him yesterday. He rested his lips on Mickey’s forehead. “I love you, too,” he promised. He pulled back and eyed him a little conspiratorially. “Don’t tell Mockey.”_ _ _ _

____A laugh bubbled out of Mickey that he didn’t expect. He was going to miss the hell out of this. He pulled Ian in for a firm, insistent series of kisses and then stood from the wall. “C’mon,” he said, as ready as he’d ever be to face the day. “We can’t stay here forever.”_ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still @and_i_take_it on Twitter if anyone wants updates on this fic.


	14. Chapter 14

He could still smell a trace of him on his skin, if he buried his nose in his flesh just so; masculine, earthy, comforting, unmistakably Mickey. His scent was a mystery, always there, yet Ian had only ever seen him use whatever random complimentary soap the hotel provided and never any cologne. God, if only he could buy it in a bottle, he would douse everything he owned in it. Instead, he had to settle for this scrap, this remnant of a night spent blanketed by Mickey’s love. It would fade, too soon, and then?

He didn’t know. The shroud of fragile optimism he’d mustered all night had fractured. Seven mind numbing hours on the bus with nothing to distract him from his thoughts had accomplished that. The I-90 had to be the least interesting highway in America, he’d decided.

Perhaps that was unfair. Perhaps he’d gotten so used to having Mickey to amuse him that everything else was boring in comparison. Mad Men certainly hadn’t held his attention. Neither had Melendez when he’d briefly sat beside him and pried for answers about whether he and Mickey were fighting.

They weren’t fighting; he couldn’t even imagine fighting with Mickey, but he could acknowledge that it made a lot of sense for that to be their cover story. How else would they explain their sudden distance or being separated on the road? He wanted to discuss it with Mickey before he answered so he’d been noncommittal and aloof until Melendez had moved back to his own seat.

Which left him with only the tree line, an occasional building and his own thoughts for company. Seven hours with nothing to do but reflect on the last few days; seven excruciating hours with the memory of Mickey breaking beneath him playing on repeat in his mind. By the second hour he’d been pretty much certifiable.

He’d visited the bathroom at the back of the bus six times during their trip, only once because he actually had to piss, each time hoping to get a little eye contact from Mickey, just a little reassurance to calm his frayed nerves. The brunet had been perpetually tuned out, earbuds in and eyes closed, which did absolutely nothing for Ian’s sanity. On his last foray down the aisle, Mickey had finally graced him with his gaze and a weak smile that didn’t reach his red rimmed eyes. It made Ian want to throw himself off the moving bus so he stayed glued to his seat after that.

Now, here he was in the bullpen, incessantly sniffing his arm like the lunatic the day had made him, while Coach Stanley droned on about pitching mechanics.

He flinched when Peralta shoved an elbow in his ribs, but didn’t drop his arm from his nose. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed.

Ian shot him an uncharacteristic glare that made the relief pitcher’s mouth clap shut. He knew he looked deranged, knew he should be paying attention, but he couldn’t make himself give the slightest shit.

“Gallagher, you’re up,” Stanley ordered a moment later and Ian groaned. It was his third day of rest after pitching against Pawtucket and he was due to practice from the bullpen mound. He climbed it knowing full well he was about to fuck the entire set up.

He caught the ball Butler tossed him and rotated it in his hand, finding the seams his fingers would rest against for his first pitch. He wondered how many times he’d done this, how many balls he’d thrown from mounds just like this one; thousands upon thousands he figured. It had always felt like freedom, today it felt more like a life sentence.

Stanley watched him chuck a few half-assed pitches before he started his critique. He had a lot to say but Ian didn’t adjust a single thing and Stanley grew more agitated with each throw. “Take a break,” he soon barked out of frustration.

Ian handed him the ball and walked to the chairs along the wall at the back of the bullpen. He strategically sat well away from the other pitchers but Peralta refused to take the hint. “What is up with you today?” he asked when he sat down beside him.

As it turned out, it would be the first of many times he’d be asked that question throughout the day and he answered the same way every time, “I slept like shit.” It wasn’t a complete lie; the meagre hours he and Mickey had managed to rest were fraught with uncertainty.

The second time, it was Melendez in the locker room. The team had come in from practice and were changing into their game uniforms when Ian spied Mickey fully nude from across the room. The familiar rush he’d always had at seeing him was gone, replaced instead by the sting of loss. He spun, balled up his practice gear and hurled it into the back of his locker.

Melendez trailed him into the rec room after they’d dressed, chewing his lip like he had a lot more to say than the “What’s up with you?” he finally came out with.

Ian mumbled his “Slept like shit” as he settled into a recliner, titled his head back and closed his eyes. He didn’t budge until game time despite having plenty of review to do.

The third time, it was Butler on the bench. Ian had been watching Mickey go through the motions for the last six innings and it was ripping what was left of his heart to shreds. The spirited second baseman was agonizingly quiet between innings, spending more time scrutinizing the dugout floor than anything else. He’d batted three times, all without his usual bluster, and didn’t get on base. His fielding was adequate but the pep in his step was notably absent. Even the umpires were left un-heckled.

He looked defeated and Ian couldn’t bear it. With every inning that passed, the pitcher was tugging his hair a little harder, shaking his leg a little more compulsively and tapping his fingers against the bench back with a lot less composure. It was taking everything in him to not stand and shout at the coach, his teammates, the thousands of spectators, the world at large, that this was unfair, that they’d never done anything wrong, that what _was_ wrong was that he was forced to sit yards away from the man he loved while they both suffered.

Butler observed his rising distress with unconcealed alarm. “Are you about to go Carlos Gomez on us? Should I move?” The Tampa Rays’ outfielder had had a dugout meltdown the day prior and it had made all the sports highlights.

Ian shook his head, too briskly for it to be reassuring. “No, you’re fine.”

The catcher scooted further down the bench anyway. “What’s going on with you today? Your practice set was a mess and now you look like you’re seconds away from going postal.”

Ian sighed a bitter laugh before he gave him the standard answer and glanced back down the bench at Mickey. He’d seen so much of the brunet’s profile all day that it startled him when their eyes met. The emotion, so plain on his face, stole his breath. From the sheen in his eyes to the set of his chin and the bow of his slightly parted lips, his heartache was utterly palpable. Ian was struck by how fucking stunning he was even then, with that much anguish in his eyes.

Then Mickey looked away and Ian nearly sprinted to him. Meacham’s presence, only a few feet away, kept him seated. The coach was idly chatting with his assistant, unaware or maybe uncaring that he was crushing them. Ian wondered if the man even understood what he was doing. He’d made it crystal clear that Mickey’s career was his priority, Ian couldn’t fault him for that, but did he comprehend the implications of keeping them apart? One look at either of them and he should have known what a foolishly counterproductive move he’d made.

Ian held it together for the last three innings of the game and the dugout remained intact. He didn’t bother to shower when he stripped out of his uniform; he hadn’t worked up a sweat and if there was any remnant of Mickey on his skin he wouldn’t chance washing it away. Instead, he staked out the bathroom and hoped he’d corner the second baseman alone. He didn’t and when he returned to the locker room Mickey was nowhere in sight. Melendez nodded towards the exit when Ian asked after him and even though he rushed, he didn’t catch so much as a glimpse of his retreating form.

His feet dragged him home and straight to his room; eating felt like too much effort as did conversing with his roommates. He threw his bag onto his bed with the intention of unpacking but paused when he saw Mockey at the top of his belongings. His mind flashed back to a perfect moment on an ill-fated night and his throat clenched. He clutched the toy to his chest and shook his head as he lowered himself onto the bed. He pictured Mickey’s unguarded blue eyes, shining in the dark brighter than any of the carnival lights that surrounded them, filling Ian’s heart, drawing confessions from him once again. It hurt so fucking much; a sweet memory turned sour.

He laid back and studied the mouse in his hands, noting all the same flaws that Mickey had pointed out and a few more besides; all the things that made him unique also made him that much more charming as far as Ian was concerned. Maybe he wasn’t meant for just anybody to love. Maybe he’d been hanging in that booth for years, alone and in a different city every week, convinced that no one would ever treasure him for everything that made him who he was. Ian knew what that felt like. He was sure Mickey did too.

“We were all waiting,” Ian whispered to Mockey. He’d been acting unhinged all day, he might as well talk to toys too.

His phone chimed in his pocket and he sat up abruptly, hoping against hope that it wasn’t just another message from his sister but it was, asking if he had any extra cash. He dismissed it and stared at his contacts, his thumb hovering over Mickey’s name, when the phone chimed again.

 **[Mickey]** u ok?

Ian gawked at the device; Mickey’s ESP never fucking failed.

 **[Ian]** no

He couldn’t be anything but honest with him.

 **[Mickey]** me either

 **[Ian]** are we fighting?

 **[Mickey]** ???

 **[Ian]** is that what we’re telling people?  
**[Ian]** just want our stories to be straight 

**[Mickey]** yeah, ok  
**[Mickey]** I should go

 **[Ian]** I love u

He’d blurted it, a text blurt, if there was such a thing, but it was all he’d wanted to tell him the entire day and he didn’t want to miss his chance.

 **[Mickey]** u too

His response was immediate and Ian was so grateful.

 **[Mickey]** get some sleep

 **[Ian]** k

Ian flopped back down and blew out a long, loud breath. He held Mockey above him, “I love him so much, Mock,” he admitted. “What the fuck am I gonna do?” Not this, that much was obvious; he couldn’t endure a day without Mickey, let alone an entire fucking lifetime. It was inconceivable that this was their fate.

He tucked Mockey into his side and ran through their options for the zillionth time that day. His mind circled back to the one and only solution that made any sense to him: quitting. It solved all their problems; they could be together, Mickey’s career would remain intact, and Ian could follow him to any city he might eventually move to.

When he’d suggested it yesterday, it had been an impulse, a reckless plan with no thought behind it; of course Mickey had rejected it outright. But the more he contemplated it, the more convinced he was that he could go through with it. There had to be no doubt in his mind before he broached the topic with Mickey again so he resolved to think about nothing else until he was sure that he could picture his life without baseball; he already knew he couldn’t picture it without Mickey.

He tossed and turned the night away and rose with the sun to put on his jogging gear. He hadn’t slept a minute and was desperate to burn off the restless energy that plagued him.

It was already hot when he stepped outside, another scorcher in the works. He took off in the direction of the sunrise at a slow trot, not caring where his legs took him, as long as he was moving. The stadium loomed in his path, a vision in orange and pink light, so clean and bright and impressive. He recalled how awed he’d been when he’d first laid eyes on it, the same day he’d first laid eyes on Mickey. It wasn’t the baseball field that had consumed his thoughts when he went home that night.

He kept going, one foot in front of the other, for the better part of an hour, making a few turns here and there when a street drew his interest. The houses grew increasingly more shabby as he ran, his subconscious leading him deep into the same derelict neighborhood that he’d visited with Mickey. Before he knew it, he was approaching the ballfield they’d played on with the kids. He made his way to one of the metal bleachers, sat heavily, and eyed a loose Rottweiler padding across the infield in front of him until it was out of sight.

He pulled off his shirt, hoping to cool down, both from the run and the sun that had gained strength as it climbed the sky. It was just after 7AM yet he could feel the rays attacking his flesh. He didn’t care, he liked the burn; it was nice to feel a different kind of pain.

He relaxed against the bleacher, as much as the unyielding metal would allow anyway, and gazed across the large swath of dead grass. Spring, summer, fall - every weather permitting day of his adolescence was spent at a field like this, usually by himself, throwing balls against the chain link backstop as hard as he could. The ballpark had always been his sanctuary, the mound his refuge; when everything else in his life was chaos that was the one constant. He couldn’t even remember a time when baseball wasn’t the biggest part of his life.

Voices distracted him from his reflection; kids crossing the street to toss the ball around before school. He watched them until their sidelong glances had him feeling more than a little pervy. When he rose to leave, one of the boys approached him.

“You pitch for the Bisons, right?” he inquired.

“Uh, yeah.”

The kid flashed him a wide, toothy grin. “I knew it!” he exclaimed with a hop. “I watch all the games. Your last start was unbelievable!” He was so excited it had Ian smiling too, the first time in more than twenty-four hours. “Can I have your autograph?”

“Sure,” Ian agreed and the kid ran to his backpack. He searched out a marker and brought it over, extending his glove for Ian to sign the thumb. “You sure you want me to write on your glove?” he worried.

“Yeah! It’ll probably be worth thousands some day!”

Ian hesitated before he touched the marker to the leather. How would this kid feel if he ended up with the autograph of the boyfriend of a major leaguer on his glove instead? Probably not great, he concluded, but scrawled his signature anyway; there was no way he could deny that eager face.

The other boys collected his autograph as well, on paper fortunately, and waved as he left. He stuffed his shirt into the waist of his shorts and picked up his pace, suddenly overcome with the urge to pound the pavement. He made it back in forty minutes, clambering through the door of his apartment a sweaty, exhausted mess.

His roommates were up and eating breakfast. Ian nodded his greeting, too out of breath for words, and headed directly to the fridge to find cold water to chug. 

“Coach says we’re roomies on the next road trip,” Fowler informed him around a bite of toast. “Mickey’s getting the new guy.”

Ian bit out a harsh laugh and turned from the fridge with a bottle in his hands. “Great!” he yelled and kicked the fridge door shut with force. Three sets of eyes went wide at his outburst. Ian twisted off the cap of his water and launched it towards the sink. “Can’t fucking wait,” he added on his way to his bedroom. He slammed the door shut, sat on his bed, downed the water in gulps and flung the bottle against the wall so hard it bounced back at him. He stomped it flat under his foot and buried his head in his hands.

Everything was so fucked up. His sleep, that kid’s optimistic face, Mickey, goddamned Fowler, the morning heat, Meacham, baseball, everything. Just everything.

Someone tapped lightly on his door. “It’s Jorge,” Melendez called.

The guy was brave; Ian had to give him that. “Come in,” he sighed.

Melendez opened the door a crack. “It’s safe?”

“It’s safe,” Ian assured him.

The Dominican’s eyes were kind as he opened the door fully. He crossed his arms and leaned against the frame. “I’m not gonna bug you about whatever’s going on, it’s your business, but if you need someone to talk to I’m here.”

“It’s this fight with Mickey,” Ian said, surprising himself.

“Yeah, I figured. He told me to fuck off and die when I asked about you.”

Ian grunted a laugh because God he loved that man.

“Dude, just talk to him. Whatever’s keeping you two apart, it’s temporary.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Well, if you can’t figure it out for yourselves, figure it out for the team. It’s hard to look at you guys, you’re gonna bring us all down.”

Ian groaned and stood up. He had enough to worry about. “I gotta get a shower,” he said to end the conversation. He turned away to find clothes, making it even clearer that he was done.

“I’m just saying, everyone will be better off when you two kiss and make up,” Melendez concluded.

Ian’s breath caught at his choice of words. He spun around but the third baseman was already gone.

***

Ian attended practice with even less enthusiasm than he’d had the previous day. He really was dog-tired this time and wanted to be anywhere but there. Even seeing Mickey wasn’t the tonic it should have been, he looked just as haggard as he did.

When the game started, Mickey was up in the bottom of the first. He strolled to the batter’s box in much the same way he’d done in their preceding game against Norfolk; as in, completely unlike his usual self. He swung on the first pitch, which he never did, and the ball skipped down the third base line. The fielder didn’t get to it in time and Mickey was safe on base. He didn’t look particularly happy about it though as he passed his batting gloves to the first base coach.

The Tides’ first baseman said something to him, in reference to the scowl on his face Ian assumed. Mickey’s lips moved, then the first baseman’s again and out of nowhere Mickey had the guys jersey twisted in his left fist. His right threatened to clobber the guy but he shoved him backwards instead. Everyone on the bench jumped to their feet. When the Norfolk player righted himself and stepped forward with his mouth going, Mickey clocked him in the nose with ruthless ferocity. He didn’t wait for the first baseman to recover; he was on his chest with his fists swinging by the time the other Tides’ fielders reached them. The dugouts cleared and Ian lost sight of Mickey in the melee.

He was relieved when he finally spotted him being dragged away by Bisons. There was blood on his cheek and he was spitting obscenities into the air but when their eyes met, Mickey calmed. He barked at his teammates to let him go, charged down the dugout steps and disappeared into the clubhouse. Ian instinctively turned to follow but Meacham warned him away with a fixed stare.

He returned to the dugout, dropped onto the bench and focused on not emptying his guts onto his shoes. There was no way Mickey was getting out of this without a multi-game suspension. There were only four games between now and the all-star game; he might be forced to skip it too.

Melendez kneaded his shoulder as he walked past but Ian didn’t notice. His mind was galloping headlong down a dark path. This was all his fault. Mickey had been so worried this would happen, he’d warned him, tried to push him away, but Ian hadn’t listened. He’d wanted Mickey enough that he’d naively thought everything would be okay, and now Mickey’s game was going to shit.

Somehow he sat there for the next eight and a half innings, knowing Mickey was long gone to God knew where. As soon as the last batter was out he was in that clubhouse and into his street clothes in record time. But then he hesitated, unsure what to do, find Mickey or stay far away like he should have in the first place. He grappled with himself over it, intensely, but ultimately caved an hour after he arrived home. He couldn't turn back time and Mickey needed him now. 

He started with a text. There was no response so he called. It rang and rang. 

He stormed into Melendez’s room without knocking. “Where does Mickey live?” he demanded of the startled Dominican.

“On Clinton Street.”

“What number?”

“I don’t know. It’s brown with white trim. Maybe four stories.”

“Okay, what’s the apartment number?”

“I have no idea.”

Ian huffed. “Do you have Axford’s phone number?”

“Sorry.”

He turned on his heel and pinched his nose, collecting himself. Peralta and Fowler had gone out after the game so there was no one else to ask. He went outside where the raw heat of the day had shifted into inescapable humidity and the air smelled like rain. He started walking towards Clinton Street.

Twenty minutes later he came upon the first building that fit Melendez’s description. An identical building sat beside it and another beside that. He barked a crazed laugh, what else could he do, and redirected to a corner store he’d passed to collect a 6-pack of beer, Mickey’s favourite brand of cigarettes and a lighter. A display of Hot Cheetos caught his eye on his way out and he swept all the bags to the floor.

He’d downed the first can of beer before he reached the nearest street corner and the second before he arrived at the baseball stadium. He’d always sought fields when he was restless; if he couldn’t find Mickey then it was the next best thing.

He made it over the wall with the remaining beer stuffed into his underwear and crossed to the infield. Everything was swathed in darkness, the game was long over, the fans had cleared out, the cleaners had come and gone, and there was too much cloud cover to let even moonlight shine through. The diamond was draped in tarps, prepared for the looming downpour, so he found the mound and sat on the canvas at about the spot he would stand to pitch. Sitting there reminded him that he was starting tomorrow and the thought set off another round of manic laughter. His third beer went down effortlessly after that.

Everywhere he looked, everything that used to comfort him just made him feel more alone, more desperate to see Mickey, more tired. He chugged his fourth beer with tears stinging his eyes.The field was doing fuck all to soothe him, it was stressing him out more. He texted Mickey and willed the phone to chime but it stayed stubbornly silent.

He struck up a cigarette only to realize they didn’t taste the same when they hadn’t touched Mickey’s lips. The fifth beer would have to do instead.

Mickey felt like this too, he knew he did. He’d attacked that Norfolk player because he couldn’t hit back at what was really hurting him: an entire culture of hate. Ian decided there and then, with absolute conviction, that he would do anything to ease his pain. 

And he could, if he quit, it always came back to that. The day had proven what he’d already known: he didn’t need baseball, he needed Mickey. If anything, he’d tried to make it a harder decision because it had seemed too easy to throw it all away for a man that he’d known a few weeks. The thing was, baseball had always been his dream, but Mickey felt like his destiny.

The last of the beer trickled down his throat just as the clouds decided to release their payload. He was soaked within seconds but it invigorated him. He jumped to his feet with as much conviction as six beers and no sleep could muster. He ran across the field, all but vaulted over the wall, and started running again as soon as his feet hit the pavement on the other side, kicking up the water that was quickly turning to puddles on the sidewalk.

He planned out the entirety of the rest of his life in that downpour, street by street, his whole life mapped out with Mickey in it. He’d clasped onto the idea of quitting baseball so fervently that he was ready to put in his resignation; he just needed to find Mickey and bring him up to speed so it could be set in motion.

By the time he arrived at the row of apartments, Ian was thoroughly drenched and completely winded. The first door he banged on opened to a Chinese lady with a baby on her hip. The second was a stoner that was disappointed Ian didn’t have pizza but invited him in anyway. The third was a middle aged woman that eyed the wet baseball player like Mr. Sandman had finally delivered. The fourth was a man with a faded Nintendo shirt stretched over his giant beer gut. Ian was undeterred; he’d try every door in every building on the street if he had to. Luckily, the beer gut guy stopped him before he could turn away; he was a Bisons fan and he’d recognized him, he knew which apartment was Mickey’s. 

Ian rapped on the second baseman’s door in drunken earnest. It creaked open to reveal Axford, a man he’d forgotten existed in the last hour, and Ian nearly shouted at him, “Where’s Mickey?”

Axford took the unusual appearance of his frazzled teammate in stride. “In his room. I’ll get him.”

But he didn’t need to because as Ian pushed past him Mickey emerged from the hall. Ian paused to take him in for a few vigorous heartbeats. He looked so fucking tired and he was wearing his hoodie. His sopping steps brought him toe to toe with the man of his dreams. 

“What the fuck?” Mickey hissed when Ian was close enough for him to whisper. 

“Where’s your room?”

“You’re not comin’ in my room.”

“Mickey, you should show me your room,” Ian declared with unnecessary volume, more than loud enough for Axford to hear.

“You fucker,” Mickey grumbled.

Ian grinned down at him with all the love he felt for him in that moment, which was a whole fucking lot. Mickey bit his lip to keep from smiling back at him but Ian saw through it and grinned even wider. 

“C’mon,” he relented and Ian followed him into the room at the end of the hall. “Don’t close the door,” he ordered when Ian turned to do so. He closed it anyway. “Don’t lock it,” he demanded when Ian fiddled with the knob until he found the latch. “Don’t sit on my fuckin’ bed!” Mickey scolded as the redhead’s wet ass sank into the covers. 

Ian stretched to tug Mickey close by the hem of his hoodie. “Don’t you dare get this hoodie wet,” the brunet warned. Ian reached up to unzip it and pull it down Mickey’s arms. He tossed it on the bed behind him, slid his hands around Mickey’s waist and rested his weary head on his stomach. 

Mickey was stiff, his hands floating above Ian’s shoulders. “You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he complained but it wasn’t long before Ian felt his fingers drop into his hair and his body relax. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked quietly.

“I needed to talk to you. You had that fight. You wouldn’t answer your phone.”

“I forgot my phone in my locker when I left.”

Ian inhaled his scent like it had been years since he’d done it last. “I missed you,” he mumbled into his shirt. “I fuckin’ missed you.”

“Me too but you can’t be here,” Mickey cautioned, his fingers twirling in Ian’s still dripping locks.

“No, I can be,” Ian explained. He rested his chin on Mickey’s abdomen and gazed up at him. “I came to tell you that I’m quitting. Tomorrow.”

Mickey’s hands froze and he stared down into Ian’s hopeful eyes. “No you’re not.”

“I am. It’s what I want,” Ian swore.

Mickey’s face contorted and he abruptly backed away. “No,” he reiterated, more sternly. “We already talked about this.” He moved to open the door.

Ian leapt off the bed and put his hand against the wood with all his weight behind it. “Wait, please,” he begged. “We didn’t talk about it. Not really. I’ve had time to think about it now. It solves everything.”

He’d crowded Mickey against the door when he’d stopped him from opening it and the brunet barely had room to turn in his arms. He winced when Ian’s cold chest pressed against his own. “You can’t be here,” Mickey repeated. 

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I can now. It won’t matter after tomorrow.”

“Would you stop fuckin’ saying that?” 

“Mickey,” he pleaded. “I don’t want baseball if it means I can’t have you. Don’t you fucking get it? Just shut up and let me choose you.” 

Mickey squeezed his eyes shut against his words. When they opened they were so clearly tortured it made Ian’s blood run cold. He searched Mickey’s face with mounting panic. Why wasn’t this making him happy? “I love you,” he whispered fiercely. 

“You love me? But you’d be okay with me quitting ball?”

Ian’s brow furrowed in confusion. “No, of course not.”

“But I’m supposed to be? I’m supposed to live with that?”

“It’s different. I have a degree. I have a… a fucking backup plan.”

“That we both know you never wanted to use,” Mickey pointed out. “You want me to go play ball every day knowing you can’t because of me? You could do that?”

“No. You’re almost there though, you-"

“Yeah, you are too,” Mickey interrupted. “This is the last stop before you’re there too.”

Ian was shaking his head. He just wanted him to shut up and let him do this. It was completely different even if he couldn’t explain how. 

Mickey continued, “You look like you haven’t slept, you smell like a fuckin’ bar, you’re a sopping wet mess. You’re not thinking straight.”

Ian slammed his hand against the wood and Mickey flinched at the sound it made. “I am!” he spat. His hand curled into a loose fist as he pulled a deep, shuddering breath and looked away. “ I am,” he said with more composure. “You haven’t slept either. At least if I do this, one of us will make it.” 

“I won’t,“ Mickey told him, and his voice trembled. He brought his hands to the sides of Ian’s face and waited for him to look him in the eye. “The only way I will is if we find a way to get over this.”

“No,” Ian denied, he’d deny it with his dying breath. They wouldn't get over each other, it would never work. “No,” he repeated. “We’re a fucking couple, Mickey. Remember? We’re supposed to figure this shit out together not just give up. I won’t give up.”

He pressed his lips to Mickey’s, desperate to remind him of what they had, that it was worth fighting for. He kept kissing him despite Mickey’s mouth being cold against his, unyielding, unresponsive; he kissed him harder, trying to wake him the fuck up. He finally lifted his lips away but didn’t open his eyes, he didn’t want to see Mickey’s face and he didn’t want to let the tears out that were so close to falling. He moved to his neck instead, quickly, before Mickey could glimpse the moisture brimming on the seams of his lids. 

“Ian-“

“Shut up, please. Just shut the fuck up,” Ian implored on a shaky breath. Maybe it was his turn to need Mickey, like Mickey had needed him at the hotel. Maybe he needed to feel his man under him, around him, because Mickey _was_ his. He had to be. He fucking had to be because he couldn’t be someone else’s. And that was the thought that broke him, that spilled his tears no matter how tightly he clenched his eyes shut to hold them in. 

He yanked at Mickey’s shirt blindly as he struggled in the crook of his neck, trying to lay his lips down even as they curled with his sorrow. He pushed and pulled and heaved but he couldn’t get Mickey’s shirt higher than his chest without a little cooperation. “Let me take it off,” he pleaded. 

“Ian,” Mickey attempted again. 

He lifted his head and let Mickey see his soul laid bare, let him see how helpless he was, that he was too lost and hurting to carry this load anymore, that he needed him. “Let me, please,” he choked out and Mickey did. He raised his arms and Ian slid his shirt over his head and he tried his lips again. They were soft now, pliant as Mickey kissed him back, and his hands were in his hair. Ian fought to contain the cries of relief that the change nearly wrenched out of him. He rocked their foreheads together, sniveling, the tears freely flowing, as he ran his palms down Mickey’s chest, feeling all the skin he hadn’t been sure he’d get a chance to touch again. 

His fingers stumbled over the hem of his own shirt and he wrestled the soggy fabric up and off. It was heavy and smacked the hard floor when it hit. He drew Mickey from the door by the hips and led him to the edge of his bed and down. Mickey moved willingly, he lay on his back, malleable, content to do what Ian wanted. 

Ian grappled with his sneakers and then his shorts. Mickey watched him in silence, his expression painfully unreadable as he waited. Ian returned to him, hovered over him, studied his eyes through the sheen of his own ache, looking for the fire he’d always seen there. He couldn’t find it and he grew frantic, possessive, crushing their lips together, rolling his hips, skimming his hands down Mickey’s sides. And Mickey took all of it, his kisses, his thrusts, his caresses, but it wasn’t the same; he didn’t want to, but he would do it for him.

Ian sobbed into his neck as he realized, trying and failing to get his lips to keep moving as Mickey stroked his back. “Shhh,” Mickey cooed into his ear, but Ian wept. He wept because he needed Mickey, but not like this. He wept because he hated baseball; the game he’d cherished had betrayed him, leading him to Mickey only to rip him away. He wept because he was so. fucking. tired. He wept because he was more than a little drunk. He wept and wept until he was sure he’d rained down as much onto Mickey as the clouds had on Buffalo. Mickey held him through it, until he’d exhausted himself to the point of stopping and fallen into a deep, wheezing slumber.

He didn’t feel Mickey’s mouth against his temple or see him rub his own tears away, didn’t hear him say how much he loved him and how fucking sorry he was. Mickey slid out from under him, covered him with a blanket, gathered up their wet clothes and left.

It was still dark when Ian blinked awake, disoriented, surrounded by Mickey’s scent but alone. He lifted his face from the pillow and searched the room for the glow of a clock but found none. His phone was in his pants but the floor was a sea of black. He shifted and groaned, stiff from the weird position he’d fallen asleep in. 

Moments later light from the hall seeped in and Mickey came with it. He switched on a nearby lamp then closed the door behind him. 

Ian sat up with his palms on his forehead. 

“I dried all your shit,” Mickey told him quietly as he sat with Ian’s hastily folded clothes in his hands and deposited them on the bed. “Except you’re sneakers, they’re still fucked.”

“Thanks,” Ian mumbled. “What time is it?”

“Five.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Nah.”

Ian shook his head, half with guilt and half with shame. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Mick. What did you tell Axford?”

“That you were wasted and passed out.”

He followed Mickey’s eyes as he glanced at the sheets behind them, noticing the damp area that Ian’s sodden underwear had left while he’d slept. “Not the wet spot I wanted to leave on your bed,” Ian joked lamely and Mickey breathed a tired laugh. 

“There’s drool or snot, fuck knows what, all over my pillow too.”

“Sexy,” Ian sighed and Mickey genuinely chuckled. Ian smiled at the sound. He plucked Mickey’s hand off the mattress where it rested between them and ran his fingertips over the cuts on his knuckles. “You know how many games you got?”

“Four.” 

That was a relief. He’d be suspended from all team activities during those four days; no practice, no clubhouse, no bench, but at least he’d be done in time to attend the All-Star game. “What happened to not using your hands?”

“Old habits die hard.”

Ian nodded and laced their fingers. “So do new ones.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ian met his eyes. “I’m not gonna give up, Mickey. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m serious about quitting. Just say the fucking word and I’ll do it.”

Mickey lifted his free hand to smooth Ian’s messy hair. “You’re like a fuckin’ character in a rom com,” he whispered. 

Ian laughed because it was true. He’d run through the rain, banged on his door, barged in here sopping wet and starry-eyed with his grand gesture. “Are we gonna get our happy ending?” he asked and Mickey sighed. “Baseball’s not everything,” he reminded him, repeating the same sentiment he’d made once before. 

“I know.”

“Then you know it’s not all you need to be happy.”

“It’s not about being happy.”

“It fucking should be. Growing up, it was about survival, right? It was for me too, but we aren’t there anymore and we don’t have to live by the same rules.”

“You don’t.” His fingers fell out of Ian’s hair. 

“Mickey, you are so much more than where you came from and you can’t even see it.” Ian breathed out a gush of frustrated air and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “You deserve to be happy. We both do.” When he looked back at Mickey he was determined to put it all on the table. “We can still have both: baseball, us. The risk is mostly to me, right? Meacham has my balls in a vice, not yours. There's no way the Jays would let him cut you. I doubt he could even trade you. If you won't let me quit then just let me take the brunt of the risk. Meet me a quarter of the way. The only thing you have to worry about is the BS if the guys find out but I know you'd get through it.” 

“You'll be on the west coast if we get caught.”

“Yeah, and it’d fucking suck, but it’ll be okay because we’d still be together in all the ways that matter. It’d be temporary.” He silently thanked Melendez for putting that word in his mouth. “It couldn’t be worse than it is now.”

“You could get cut.”

“Mick, you’re not hearing me. I’m not going to make it without you anyway.”

The brunet was quiet as he reflected on Ian’s words. He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I need to think about all this shit,” he decided when he eventually spoke. To Ian, it looked like he wouldn’t be able to do that until he got some serious sleep.

“Okay,” Ian agreed. “I’ll head home.” He stood, slid his clothes on over his still clammy underwear then bent to the unpleasant task of putting on soggy sneakers. Mickey handed him his phone and wallet. He remembered the mess he’d made on Mickey’s pillow, remembered how good it had smelt, and scooped it off the bed. “I’ll wash this for you.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes at him. “I can’t wash my own pillow?” 

“I didn’t ask questions when you took my hoodie.” He bowed down and pecked Mickey’s lips but got nothing in return. “Stop it,” he scolded. He recalled telling Mickey once that he’d stop kissing him when Mickey stopped kissing him back; how defeatist.

Mickey scowled. “You stop it.”

“I guarantee you; you’ll stop it before I do,” Ian assured him with a smirk. 

The second baseman rose to his feet. “I forgot how annoying you are when you’re bein’ cocky,” he complained.

“And I forgot how annoying you are when you’re playing hard to get,” Ian teased. He brought his hands to Mickey’s waist and leaned in close. 

“I am hard to get.”

Ian snorted. “That’s not what I heard.”

“You’re not helpin’ your case.” Mickey’s smile made that hard to believe.

“It’s shut and dry.” Ian shrugged. “You need me as much as I need you. Get some sleep and maybe you’ll realize it.” He laid a kiss on Mickey’s nose. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.” He pulled Ian into a warm, thorough hug that nearly had the redhead bawling again. His air of confidence was more fragile than it seemed. 

***

Ian pitched later that day, but neither his heart nor his head were in it. He was tired and unprepared; the hours of sleep he’d gotten at Mickey’s weren’t enough to make up for all the ones he’d missed and the scant review he’d quickly done before the game hadn’t had a chance to sink in. He’d let in two runs in the first inning, another in the third, and four in the fourth. The Bisons lost, it was his fault, and he didn’t care. Baseball would be back in his good graces once Mickey was back in his arms.

Melendez made him Sancocho after the game to cheer him up. He said it was the ultimate comfort food and as delicious as it was, it did nothing for his mood; not hearing from Mickey all day ensured that. He said goodnight to his roommates and headed to his room with no hope of sleep.

It was drizzling and the wind had picked up, blowing leaves and debris against his bedroom window. He’d been hearing the pitter patter of things hitting it for half the night, but when something thumped against it he looked up sharply, squinting into the pitch black. The building was old and surrounded by mature trees so he assumed it was a branch but he got up from his bed to have a closer look. He peered into the gloom and was met with a face looking back at him. 

The defeaning screech that erupted from his throat had Melendez rapping on his door a moment later. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just a… a spider!” he yelled, his chest heaving. He scrambled to the door and locked it, turned the radio on with shaking fingers, and returned to the window to open it for Mickey.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Ian cursed when the pane lifted. Mickey could barely climb in; his body was too weak with laughter. Ian helped him through even though he felt more like clobbering him to death. The man was wet and windblown and gorgeous as he stood before him though, so Ian picked leaves out of his hair and tried to calm down. 

“Sorry,” Mickey apologized, smiling too wide for it to hold any meaning, “I still don’t have my phone.”

“I got it out of your locker today.”

“Thanks.” 

Ian watched, fascinated, as the brunet started pulling off his shirt. They hadn’t even established why he was there. “What’re you doing?” he asked tentatively, hoping he wouldn’t stop.

He waited until his head emerged from the soaked cloth to answer. “I still haven’t slept. If we’re gonna talk, I gotta do it layin’ down.” His hands moved to his pants.

“You didn’t sleep today?”

“Couldn’t. I went to the game though.”

“You did?” Ian was horrified that Mickey had seen him pitch.

“Yeah, you really shit the bed,” he stated bluntly as he slid his underwear down his legs.

Ian rocked back on his heels and tried to look somewhere else; after his humiliating attempt at seducing Mickey the night before he needed to keep himself in check.

The second baseman crawled onto his bed and folded down the covers like he belonged there; which he did, but that was beside the point. “You comin’?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Ian, eyebrows raised.

“Uh, yeah,” Ian stammered. Fuck yeah. He stripped everything besides his underwear off, switched off the light and climbed on as well. Mickey laid his head on the pillow Ian had stolen and his face scrunched up. He reached inside the case and hauled Mockey out. 

“I wanted him to smell like you,” Ian explained sheepishly. 

“Christ,” Mickey swore. He handed the toy to Ian and rolled his eyes when the redhead tucked it in against the skin of his back.

They settled into the bed, facing each other, sharing Mickey’s pillow. Ian kept his hands to himself, waiting anxiously for the brunet to speak. His voice was a whisper when he finally did, “If we do this again, we can’t fuck it up.”

“Okay,” Ian breathed. “We won’t.”

“I swear to God if we get caught and you get traded to the PCL I’m gonna fuck every guy in this city to get over you.”

Ian smiled softly. “No you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” he agreed with a long suffering sigh. “I’ll just pine like a little bitch for your dorky ass.”

Ian chuckled and nestled closer. “You just ran here in the rain and climbed in my window to profess your love for me. It’s in character.”

“I didn’t run.”

“Close enough.” He bit his lip. “So, we’re doing this again?” 

“We’re doing this again,” Mickey confirmed. “Can’t have you pitching like a chump and how the fuck else am I gonna get any sleep?”

“You sleeping here?” Ian asked hopefully. He found the nerve to glide his hand onto Mickey’s lower back. 

“I shouldn’t.”

“You’ll have to fight me if you try to leave,” he warned. “There will be an altercation.”

Mickey offered a sleepy grin. “Tough guy.”

“Stay,” Ian urged. “Leave in the morning.” He wanted nothing more than to hold him all fucking night. 

“Okay,” Mickey agreed and Ian held back a triumphant shout. He surged forward and caught Mickey’s perfect lips with his own. They didn’t hesitate to move against his this time, kissing him back like they meant it, but they were undeniably sluggish; Mickey was exhausted. They both were.

When Ian pulled back to gaze at him, Mickey’s eyes stayed closed. A moment later his breathing slowed. Ian had been about to ask him what exactly had changed his mind, but it could wait.

He peeked over Mickey’s side at Mockey. The mouse smiled up at him, not even slightly perturbed that his spot had been taken; he had every reason to be happy, he was snuggling Mickey too after all. Ian tapped his palm against the stub of Mockey’s stuffed hand in the tiniest of high fives and melted back into the pillow, all set to have the best goddamned sleep of his life.

***

Ian woke to Mickey grazing a kiss onto his lips.

It was barely dawn; just enough dappled light trickled in from the window to illuminate the room. 

“I gotta go,” the brunet whispered. 

“Okay,” Ian croaked. The radio was still on from the night before, set to some obnoxious top forty station playing the current hits on loop. A sappy love song set the mood for Ian’s affection as his fingers fluttered through Mickey’s hair. “You gonna come back tonight?”

“Maybe,” Mickey taunted.

“Make it definitely or I’m not letting you go.”

“I will,” he promised. 

Ian regarded him carefully, studied his eyes, the height of his brows, how many creases were in his forehead. “You’re still worried,” he surmised.

“Ian, how the fuck can I not be?”

“It’s gonna be okay as long as we have each other.” He stroked Mickey’s neck, attempting to find the right words to string his thoughts together. He paused and his eyes twinkled, he tried to keep a straight face. “You complete me,” he whispered.

“Jesus fuck,” Mickey groaned. 

“We complete each other.” 

Mickey pecked his lips and lifted away. “I’m leaving,”

“It’s us against the world,” Ian continued. 

Mickey got dressed and grabbed his phone while Ian recited his lines. He leaned down to give the redhead a goodbye kiss. “What about Mockey?” Ian wondered after, holding up the toy for Mickey’s lips.

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“He’s just a toy, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love him.”

Mickey shook his head. “There must be something wrong with me too.” 

Ian fisted his shirt and yanked him forward. “There’s not,” he assured him and brought their mouths together hard. 

When he let Mickey go, the fire was back in the brunet’s eyes and Ian had every intention of fanning that flame later. He made a mental note to nab Mickey’s jockstrap from his locker after the game.

“I gotta get the fuck outta here before the whole neighborhood is up to watch me crawl out that window,” Mickey husked, his lips skimming Ian’s. “I’ll text you later.”

“K.”

Mickey kissed him one last time, a slow, sultry nip that promised more. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

He turned and left the way he’d come. Ian had a lovely view of his ass while he did it. 

He spread out on his bed, savoring the warmth where Mickey had been and the scent he’d left behind; all of the spots he burrowed his face smelt like his man and he sighed with the contentment of knowing he would be back that night to top them up. As far as Ian Clayton Gallagher was concerned, every single fucking thing was right in his world.


	15. Chapter 15

The red maples bordering the playground acted like guards, muffling the sounds of the busy city around it, impeding the streetlights, sheltering it from view. Fortunately, the school had valued the trees over the space they could have gained in their stead, had tended them until they’d grown tall and dense and useful. Spots like this were difficult to come by in the heart of downtown. 

If only it wasn’t so fucking creepy.

Like a playground graveyard, the equipment reeked of disuse, crooked and mostly flaking. The swings, suspended above gaping puddles, weathered, worn and slowly creaking, swayed in an undetectable breeze. It was enough to send shivers up the most stalwart of spines. 

Ian approached the grounds with deliberate steps, careful not to tread on any of the discarded and worn playthings, filthy dolls, broken sand toys, deflated balls and the like, that littered the ground, cursing Mickey for his choice of rendezvous locations and wondering for the umpteenth time why they couldn’t have just met at his apartment. This was like something out of a goddamned horror flick; the exasperating scene where the viewer shouts in vain at the moron on the screen to not go into that terrifying fucking place alone, at night, unarmed. Ian was that moron and he was willingly, albeit reluctantly, marching to what he assumed would be his own slaughter.

He’d been geared up to have Mickey back in his room, in his bed, under him, or maybe in front of him, when Mickey had texted. It was too risky, he’d decided, _Larry, Curly and Moe_ might be dumb but they weren’t deaf and Ian’s window, although obscured by trees, was still partially visible from the street. So instead of the sizzling, jockstrap clad reunion he’d planned on having with Mickey’s ass, he was unwittingly cast in this ghoulish slasher film at the abandoned School of Future Axe Murderers and Serial Killers of America.

He peered into the moonlit darkness, his eyes darting back and forth; there was no sign of Mickey and knowing he was alone made his skin crawl all the more. Then again, if Mickey wasn’t there, he was better off alone.

“This place is _fucked_ ,” Mickey remarked behind him at a completely natural, normal volume that didn’t belong anywhere near a setting like this.

Ian shouted a startled bark and spun around with his neck on fire and his gut full of ice. “Fuck!” he hissed on a strangled breath and jabbed the brunet’s sternum hard.

Mickey’s lips fractured into that impish, teeth blaring, grin of his and his eyebrows popped. “Jumpy,” he teased. Ian scowled at him until Mickey stepped into his space with placating hands. They dropped onto his chest and skated to his shoulders. 

“You gotta stop doing that,” Ian scolded but the after effects of his fright were mostly forgotten, pacified by Mickey’s proximity and how good he looked in leather. Ian slipped his fingers under the waist of Mickey’s jacket and settled them on his hips. “You find this place on a haunted tour of Buffalo?”

“Nah, I passed by here the other day.”

“And you thought, hey, that looks like a great spot to take Ian?”

“It looked better in the daylight,” he admitted. “At least no one will bug us here.”

“Jeffrey Dahmer might. I bet he’d fucking love to bug us here.” Not to mention the actual bugs Ian could hear buzzing around their heads.

“I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

“His ghost then.”

Mickey chuckled and grabbed at the sides of Ian’s face as Ian wove his fingers together behind his back. “C’mere,” he muttered and Ian came. 

Mickey’s lips were impossibly soft and inviting when Ian pressed his own against them. He tasted faintly of chocolate, milky and delectably sweet, and Ian chased the flavor deep into his mouth, his grip firm on Mickey’s back as his hand snuck into his hair. Mickey hummed into the kiss like he’d been looking forward to it all day too. 

Just as thoughts of their eerie surroundings began to fade, a mosquito attempting to make a meal off the back of Ian’s neck distracted him. He slapped it off and sighed when Mickey detached himself and turned to tread further into the playground. 

“I caught the game,” Mickey told him as they walked, seemingly intent on starting a normal conversation in this foreboding place. “Axford had a good start.”

“Yeah, his changeup was working for him,” Ian mumbled. 

“Fuckin’ Silva though,” Mickey snorted in reference to the subpar performance of his replacement at second.

“He’s no Mickey Milkovich,” Ian concurred. “You do anything else today besides watch the game?” If this was his only chance to see Mickey today, he might as well try to make the most of it.

“Cleaned my room, worked out. Not much else to do.”

“That’s good; your room was a mess.”

Mickey threw a smirk over his shoulder. “I’m surprised your plastered ass noticed.”

“I noticed when I woke up.” 

Mickey stopped at the bottom of the double slide where he sat on the end of one and Ian warily removed a doll leg so he could sit on the other. “Why the fuck are we here again?” he griped.

“We’ve gotta be careful, man.” 

“This is _too_ careful.”

“Can’t be too careful.” He dipped his head and spat between his feet.

“There’s gotta be somewhere else,” Ian huffed. “Maybe a nice cemetery nearby?” 

“We’re in the middle of the city. There aren’t a lot of options.” Made all the worse by their lack of anonymity; everywhere they went, they were at risk of being recognized.

“Come back to my apartment,” Ian persisted. “I’ll keep an eye out while you climb in the window.” He walked his fingers beneath the hem of Mickey’s shirt onto his back; smoothing his palm over all the skin he could reach, enticing him to see reason. Their bottle of lube was burning a hole in his pocket but the thought of taking his dick out here was stomach churning. Didn’t people usually get hacked to death right after they fucked in horror films?

Mickey swung his head and regarded him knowingly. “You don’t wanna bang here?”

“Look at that swing, Mickey,” he said, directing the brunet’s attention to the set in front of them. “It’s moving and there’s no fucking wind.” 

Mickey cocked his head and studied the hair-raising oddity until he shrugged. “I’ve gone at it in worse places.” 

“Like where?” Ian spluttered. “A crypt?”

“Back home in the South Side, with my dad in the house. Now _that_ shit was scary.”

Ian leaned back against the sloped metal behind him but carried on rubbing Mickey’s back, touching him, tethering them to each other, as the mood subtly shifted. “He ever catch you?” he inquired softly.

“No, thank fuck,” Mickey grunted. A mosquito landed on his leg and he squashed it under his fist.

“How’d he find out about you then?”

“I was back in Chicago after my first season in Double–A. Screwed around with the wrong guy. Got blackmailed.”

“Shit,” Ian breathed. “He told your dad?”

Mickey bobbed his head, picked Ian’s hand off his back and reclined onto the slide with it still in his grasp. “I didn’t have cash to pay him off and wouldn’t risk my ass goin’ to jail to get it. Couldn’t find him to fuck him up. He tried to get money outta my dad,” he continued. “It backfired for that piece of shit though. My dad shut him up real quick.”

“Then your dad came for you?”

“Then my dad came for me,” he confirmed. He watched his fingers as they played with Ian’s, weaving together and apart, stroking circles into his calluses, skimming his knuckles. 

Ian watched him in turn, wondering how anyone so incredible, so good and loving, could come from someone so vile. “I bet your dad’s everyone’s bottom bitch in prison,” he joked in an effort to rouse Mickey from his less than pleasant reverie.

Mickey’s dour lips split into a grin. “Cook County cum dumpster.”

“He can’t get enough convict cock.”

Mickey’s laugh trickled out of him, low and melodious; it’s warmth making their sinister backdrop a little less chilling. Ian had an intense urge to kiss him, to put his lips where that sound erupted, but the median between them blocked his access. He rose from his side of the slide and hunched over Mickey’s, pushing his knee between the brunets so he could lower himself down. They chuckled as he awkwardly worked himself into the narrow space, Mickey shuffling this way and that to accommodate his bulk.

“Hi,” he whispered when he finally got there. His elbows ached and his knees burned but it was worth it.

“Hey,” Mickey replied quietly. “You change your mind about bangin’?” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I doubt I could even get it up here.”

Mickey quirked an eyebrow in challenge. “Bet you can,” he hummed, his voice silky smooth as his fingers glided under the back waist of Ian’s jeans. Ian knew better than to take that bet, those three words alone had made his dick twitch.

Mickey stretched up to Ian’s lips and drew him back down, kissing him hard, wet and slick in the gloom, suddenly oozing sex out of every single one of his goddamned pores. His fingers dug into the top of Ian’s ass, rocking, pressing their bodies flush, persuading him to move his hips while his mouth fed. 

When Mickey turned it on, he could dial it way the fuck up and Ian was helpless against it, all of it, they both knew it. He’d fuck him here, he’d fuck him in a crypt, he’d fuck him on Elm Street with Freddy Krueger breathing down his neck. His dick knew it too. 

“The fuck is diggin’ into me?” Mickey broke away to grumble.

“Uh,” Ian began. 

“Not that,” Mickey smirked. He flattened his hand and reached between them, wrenching Ian’s bottle of lube out of the front pocket of his jeans and bringing it into his line of sight. When he realized what he held, his whole body shook under Ian’s. “You’re carrying around a full sized bottle of lube?” he wheezed. His head arched back into the slide as his laugh overtook him, exposing his quaking throat.

“I thought we would be fucking in my bed until an hour ago,” Ian reminded him but he was powerless against Mickey’s infectious giggles and shuddered along with him.

“Fuck, you kill me,” Mickey panted. He righted his head and beamed up at him with shining eyes so heavy with affection that Ian choked on his last chuckle when his breath hitched. He froze, hypnotized by how much love he saw, by how wide open Mickey looked. He was scared to move or breathe or even let his heart beat too hard in case he somehow caused the worry to seep back in. _Those damn eyes_ , he thought, _no wonder I’m fucked for life_. 

Mickey blinked Ian out of his fugue and he plunged to the brunet’s mouth, rushing to reconnect them as his fingers twisted in his hair. Mickey’s hand was on his neck, pulling him down, steering their kiss harder and deeper. Ian ground into him, aching to love him with every part of himself, but the slide made him graceless, ringing when he’d bang his elbows against the sides, reverberating when he’d whack his leg. He ignored it, focused on Mickey, until his knee slipped. Without warning he crashed onto the brunet, knocking their teeth together, colliding their noses, propelling a loud gush of air from both their lungs. Mickey grunted under the burden, finding enough breath to tell a stunned Ian to lift the fuck up.

“Sorry,” he apologized, scrambling to support his weight. “Would you please just come back to my place?” he pleaded one more time. 

“We can’t. We gotta be smarter this time.” 

Ian rested his exasperated head on Mickey’s collarbone and did his best to keep his desperation out of his voice. “I want to do things to you,” he groaned, “I can’t do them here.” He could press him against the school wall, get off quick before the ghouls got offended or the mosquitoes obliterated their asses, but it wasn’t what he craved. It wasn’t the endless skin on skin, mouth on skin, sweaty, hot and all consuming, hours long encounter that he yearned for. 

“Ian, this is what you wanted.”

Ian looked up at him in utter confusion. All he’d done since they’d arrived was complain, how did that equate to him wanting this?

Mickey read his expression and elaborated. “You wanted to do all this shit again. The sneaking around. We’re under the gun now, what did you expect? We can find somewhere less fuckin’… murdery, but it won’t be like it was before.”

Ian squinted at him, unsure why Mickey kept phrasing it the way he was. “So did you. You wanted to do it again too.”

“I wanted you to keep playin’ ball.”

Ian’s stomach twisted into an instant knot. “What the fuck does that mean?” he croaked. 

“You said you wouldn’t make it without me. You were self-destructing.”

Ian planted his hands on either side of Mickey’s head and pushed up abruptly. “Wait, you’re saying the reason you changed your mind is because I couldn’t keep my shit together?” He waited, teetering on the edge of alarm, anxiously watching Mickey’s mouth and eyes for some sign, any fucking sign, that he had it wrong, that Mickey hadn’t been compelled through his window and into his bed out of some sort of misguided chivalry. Mickey didn’t speak, his eyes were earnest, and Ian commenced his descent into panic. “That’s bullshit, Mickey, you were miserable too! You couldn’t sleep! You got suspended!” 

“I was worried sick about you!”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?!” Ian barked as he clumsily hoisted himself off Mickey’s slide and dropped onto the end of his own. This wasn’t what he wanted at all; this was a breeding ground for resentment. 

Mickey sat up, his tone suddenly soft, an obvious attempt to calm Ian’s mounting stress. “Look, I was wrecked too, you know that, but I could cope. I wanted to try and get over-”

Ian sighed a wry laugh and pressed his fingertips into his eyes. “No, you’re kidding _yourself_.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up as his patience rapidly waned. “I’m kidding _myself_?” he queried. “You think there’s a chance in hell any of this can work out anyway? When meeting in shitholes like this is all we got? When, even if we somehow don’t get caught, which is a fuckin’ pipe dream considering how quick we did last time, one of us could get traded or called up at any moment? We’re gonna keep this goin’ when we don’t see each other for nine months outta the year? Keep that up for six, seven, ten years, even longer?”

“Yeah, yeah I do think that. Or I did, anyway. Stupid me for believing you could go five minutes without a dick up your ass, right?” The words were scathing, out before he could curb them, bred from his rising distress and his humiliation that he’d gone all night and day thinking Mickey had chosen him at last. Mickey’s teeth sank into his lip in response as Ian’s disappointment spurred him on. “So what’s this then? You plan on pity fucking me until I get tired of slapping mosquitoes off my dick?” 

“Fuck you,” Mickey spat.

“No, fuck you, Mickey,” Ian fumed. He jumped to his feet to pace in the sand, hands on his hips, punting any macabre litter that got in his way. His anger warred in his mind with what he knew to be true: that this wasn’t the kind of love that people just got over and Mickey knew it too. He came to a halt in front of the second baseman but Mickey didn’t meet his eyes; he sat with his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled over his mouth, tracking the flight of the demonic swing. “You know what,” Ian began, drawing his gaze, “every fucking thing you just said is bullshit, all of it; all lies you have to tell yourself to justify making a choice you don’t want to make. One of us moves to the Jays; we’re still going to love each other. One of us gets traded; we’re still going to love each other. No matter what the fuck happens, you’re still going to love me. It’s not going away. You’re the one that’s got yourself fooled if you think you can just get over it.”

Mickey ran a hand over his face and fixed his blue eyes on the ground. The fight visibly drained out of him in the seconds before he spoke. “We should never have done any of this in the first place,” he muttered wearily, looking infinitely more exhausted than he had upon their arrival. Ian’s shoulders sank and he slumped back onto the slide, rendered boneless by Mickey’s words, words he’d dreaded hearing from the start. Tears pricked his eyes but he refused them, tired of feeling pathetic and love-sick, he buried his wrists in his sockets and waited in silence for the swell to pass. He felt Mickey’s fingers crawl onto his knee and squeeze. “Fuck,” he sighed. “I didn’t mean that. It’d just be easier.”

“Easier, maybe, but fucking tragic,” Ian replied miserably. He crossed his arms on his lap and let his hand fall onto Mickey’s. “I know it’s hard but it’s not impossible, Mick. We just have to decide it’s you and me in the end. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. You just have to decide you want that.” 

“You know I do. I swear to God I want that. I just-” 

“You just don’t know if you’re willing to risk baseball to have it. Now we’re back to the real problem.” Ian’s free hand fisted over his lips and he shook his head. “Fuck, you’re so _frustrating_ ,” he breathed into his fingers. He laid his hand on Mickey’s knee and shifted towards him, his eyes intense as they met the brunet’s, ready for his last stand. “You’d risk it to keep me playing. Think about that. You’d do it for me but not for you.” He paused to let the implications of that sink in. “You don’t love baseball more than you love me; you love baseball more than you love _yourself_.”

Mickey’s mouth opened but clamped shut at the sound of a branch splintering somewhere in the tree line. The wolfish growl that followed jolted them both off their slides. They sped from the playground in unspoken agreement, not looking back, not stopping until they’d reached the front of the school. 

“We’re never coming back here again,” Ian panted. Private or not, it wasn’t worth the goddamned nightmares. 

“Yeah, fuck that.” Mickey shuddered. 

They stood a foot apart, shuffling uneasily, knowing there was more to say but painfully aware that they were now in plain view of the street and the adjacent buildings. There were too many eyes and ears in the city.

“I’m sorry-,” they said simultaneously, quirking their lips when their voices collided. Neither of them resumed their thought, they didn’t need to, it was already forgiven.

Ian chanced trailing a thumb along Mickey’s jaw, grazing the dark scruff that hadn’t been tamed in a few days, biting back the impulse to suggest he keep it. Mickey’s fingers covered his for a moment, just long enough for Ian to catch their warmth, before he nodded and dragged his hand off his face. 

“I wasn’t tryin’ to piss you off. I just don’t know what the fuck to do,” Mickey breathed. He looked so worn out, so conflicted, and Ian’s heart hurt for him as much as it did for himself. More even. 

“I know,” Ian assured him. “You can’t just do it for me though, Mick. You know it won’t work like that.” He had to steel himself to say the next part so he didn’t look as scared as he felt. “We’ve got six days between now and when we play in Columbus. I’ll leave you alone so you can figure your shit out." He smiled thinly at Mickey’s concerned expression and added, “I’ll handle it. I’ll be fine.” Mickey snorted and Ian’s smile inflated. Some lies needed to be told whether they fooled anyone or not. Voices floated from the corner, pedestrians that would be passing by shortly from the sounds of it. Ian took a step back, putting space between them that he didn’t want to. “If I don’t talk to you, good luck at the All-Star game.”

“Don’t need luck,” Mickey reminded him.

“Good luck to all the other losers then,” Ian amended. He walked backwards, drinking Mickey in for as long as he possibly could. “Try not to beat anyone up ‘cause you’re so fucking _worried_ about me,” he snarked through his grin as he turned in the direction of his apartment. He didn’t need to hear Mickey’s chuckle or see the middle finger flipped his way to know with absolute certainty that they both happened. 

Six days. _Six days_ , he thought as he walked, and if Mickey didn’t choose him in the end, what then? He passed over a manhole, pictured himself crawling into the sewers and never coming out. He’d feed off the rats, scavenge for garbage, maybe bring Mockey with him, hunch over the toy in the dark and pat him while he hissed ‘my precious’. 

Yup. That sounded about fucking right. 

***

“If one more fuckwad sticks a microphone in my face, I’m gonna shove it up their ass so far they choke on it,” Mickey vowed as he charged through the concourse of Huntington Park, the Columbus Clipper’s home field. He’d arrived in town earlier that day for the opening day of the All-Star celebrations and was merrily on his way to the mandatory, hour long autograph session. He groaned when he passed the endless line of eager fans.

Evans trailed behind him, a last minute, self-invited addition to Mickey’s guest list. With the PawSox scheduled to play the Mud Hens in Toledo the day after the All-Star break, Evans noted that Columbus was conveniently on his way, a perfect opportunity to take in his first All-Star game. Never mind that he had nowhere to crash besides Mickey’s pull-out or that the second baseman had told him to stay the fuck in Pawtucket on threat of bodily harm. Mickey was more than a little suspicious that Evans motives had more to do with reigning in his foul mood than with his own desire to see the game. Regardless, he’d shown up that morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to irritate the fuck out of an already irritable Bison. 

“Better get used to it hot shot,” Evans hummed. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey bit back and sighed when Evans beamed at him. 

The day’s events were barely underway and Mickey was over them before they’d begun. The All-Star game itself wasn’t until Wednesday but their Monday was chock-full of activity; an All-Star luncheon that he’d already endured, this session he was about to endure and competitions on the field he’d have to endure afterward. He wanted nothing more than to skip the next two days and go straight to the game.

Mickey scanned the tables bordering the concourse and spied a tented card with his name on it. When he sat, Evans plucked the neighboring card off the table and set it on the one beside them.

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to sit there,” Mickey advised when Evans sat in the adjacent chair.

“I think it’s best for everybody if I do.”

“I don’t need a goddamned babysitter.”

Evans gave him the same indulgent smile he’d been sporting since he’d arrived. “Yes, you do.”

Mickey shook his head. Admittedly things with Ian had made him a little grouchier than he’d been of late, but he could refrain from going off on a fan without Evans’ supervision. 

He should never have blabbed to the PawSox player about any of it. It’d been a moment of weakness. Evans had simply called to wish him luck and had offhandedly inquired whether his man would be attending the game. By then, Mickey hadn’t seen or spoken to Ian for two full days, two full days of torment, and before he could tame his liquor-loose tongue he was cursing about Meacham and recounting his not-quite-fight with the redhead. It seemed he’d needed to get it out of his system, but then Evans had made it his personal mission to ensure Mickey’s All-Star experience went off without a hitch. Not that he’d admit that’s why he was there.

Mickey flexed his fingers, bracing himself for the hand cramp he was about to work up, as the organizers signalled for the guests at the start of the line to enter. Although many started with the closest player, intending to go from one to the next and gather all the signatures they could on their All-Star posters, others went straight for their favorites; Mickey had a sizeable line-up almost immediately. The first in line put a ticket stub in front of him and started them off. Mickey made fleeting eye contact, mumbled pleasantries, was civil, if not exactly polite; making idle conversation with adoring strangers just wasn’t his thing, never would be, but especially not lately.

A fan looked uncertainly at Evans after he’d gathered Mickey’s autograph; he was the only man sitting behind the tables that wasn’t wearing a jersey. “Are you a player?”

“I am indeed.” 

“Not a good one though,” Mickey quipped.

“A _great_ one,” Evans clarified. The man handed Evans his poster and he laid down his signature.

“Stop ruining their shit,” Mickey scolded when the guy had moved to the next table. It was the second poster Evans had signed.

“I’m increasing the value exponentially.”

Mickey snorted and took a ball from the next person in line. “Can I get a picture with you?” the doe-eyed girl inquired enthusiastically.

“Not allowed,” Mickey grunted.

She peered down the row at the other players leaning over their tables for selfies. “But they are.”

“Good for them.” Mickey handed the ball back and motioned for her to be on her way. Evans offered her a smile and an apology as she left. 

Mickey pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time. Only six fucking minutes had gone by. He set it on the table and looked up at the next expectant faces in line, a man with his young son. “Can we get a picture with you?” the dad asked.

Mickey picked up his tent card, scrawled ‘NO PICTURES’ on the front, set it back down and gestured to it. “You got somethin’ for me to sign?”

“Uh, yeah.” The flustered dad slid a baseball card onto the table as his son frowned. Mickey scribbled on it and pushed it back.

“You must really be miserable if the kids can’t even melt your ice cold heart,” Evans admonished when the thwarted man and boy had left. “How do you not feel bad?”

Mickey shrugged. “It’s a gift.” He jotted on the poster the next person handed him without so much as glancing up. “I’m signin’ their junk, aren’t I?” 

“Hmm, you’ll take pictures with _him_ though,” Evans mused, tilting Mickey’s phone screen in his direction. “He must have better junk.”

“How the fuck did you unlock my phone?” Mickey barked, snatching it out of Evans’ hands. He’d switched his home screen to the picture Ian had taken of them days ago. He liked how they looked in it. Happy.

“Educated guess. Seventeen twice. Seventeen is Ian’s jersey number, right?” When Mickey only eyed him reproachfully he continued with a self-satisfied grin. “That’s, like, _so_ teenage girl of you,” he teased in his best Valley Girl accent. 

It’d be a fucking miracle if Evans survived the next three days.

Everyone outlived the hour, at least, and the clock mercifully drew the session to a close. The organizers herded them into the adjoining clubhouse to prepare for the on-field events that would close out the day. The locker room was a madhouse; disorganized and filled to the brim with jovial players, coaches and media. They only had a few minutes to gather their belongings and head out for the opening ceremony. 

It was all too rushed, Mickey thought, too chaotic for a man who needed time to reflect and prepare. It made him feel like a cog in a too-fast machine; like baseball’s leisurely soul was being neglected. Fortunately, it wasn’t game day yet and his disposition improved when he stepped into the dugout. Even with unfamiliar teammates, an unfamiliar schedule and obligations he hated, this part he knew. It helped that he’d always loved playing in Columbus. Huntington Park was a beautiful stadium; modern but with an old-timey feel and a charismatic cityscape that surrounded it. 

He took a long, deep breath and trotted up the steps to await his teammates on the third base line; as usual, everything would be kicked off with the National Anthem. Evans sidled up next to him and Mickey shook his head. “You better not try to pull this shit on game day.”

“I’ll be in the stands. No one cares today.” 

Mickey glanced around the infield. He saw a few of the player’s kids milling about the dugouts, some wives and girlfriends, other ball players and coaches that weren’t on either All-Star team. It appeared that Evans was correct so he didn’t argue. He anticipated twiddling his thumbs for the majority of the next three hours anyway, he was only participating in one event; maybe having Evans there wasn’t entirely awful.

The first and third base lines swelled with people ahead of the start of festivities. As the time drew near, the door to the field access tunnel opened and a stream of khaki wearing, polo clad men poured out. Mickey counted at least sixty of them as they were directed to stand at a row of microphones just behind second base. 

And if every single solitary one of them wasn’t queer then Mickey had been knocked way, way the fuck off his game. 

Mickey gaped as the loudspeaker announced that the Columbus Gay Men’s Choir would be performing the National Anthem and God Bless America. He barely even registered the snickers from the men around him because a goddamned rainbow flag was being hoisted beneath the Stars and Stripes on the center field flag pole. He immediately saw it for what it was; the league paying lip service to the affirmative action that they wouldn’t commit to in any substantial way. 

Someone nearby joked, “Careful boys, don’t bend over with your back to them,” and a chorus of laughter followed.

Evans had to snatch Mickey’s cap off his head and stuff it into his hands when the men began to sing.

They were good, their voices harmonized pleasantly, they did their thing and the crowd cheered as jets flew overhead at the conclusion of God Bless America, but Mickey found it impossible to enjoy the idyllic baseball moment; he knew, he fucking _knew_ , that he was about to hear every homophobic joke and slur the assholes on his team knew. And sure enough, the guy to Evans’ left started them off. “Alright, which one of you faggots got your boyfriend’s choir this gig?” he teased. “I need to know who to watch out for in the showers.” The men around him chuckled and punched playfully at the jokester’s stomach and shoulders. 

A coach down the line piped up, “If you go for drinks after the game, be sure to say no if anyone offers to push in your stool.” The line of men erupted in laughter and Mickey seethed.

Evans grabbed his bicep. “Keep your cool,” he whispered.

The player to Mickey’s right elbowed him, “You know what the first symptom of AIDS is?” Mickey slowly turned his intense gaze on him and the guy, a Syracuse Chief, stuttered his punch line uncertainly. “Um, a pounding sensation in the ass?”

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Mickey spat as he attempted a step toward him; Evans’ tightened his grip on his arm and kept him in place.

The Chief held his hands up in a calming gesture. “What’s your problem, man?”

“You’re my fuckin’-,” Mickey hissed, but Evans quickly intervened.

“My brother’s gay, okay? He’s friends with Mickey. Just have some respect.” 

He pushed Mickey in the direction of the dugout, out of earshot of the other men, with Mickey shaking his head in frustration as they went. He’d been putting up with this crap his entire fucking life and now the league wanted to pretend it was tolerant? All while they continued to employ coaches like Meacham and turned a deaf ear to players nonchalantly cracking jokes and hurling hate; while he and Ian were forced apart or out. It was infuriating. 

Evans propelled Mickey into the clubhouse and spun him around to face him, his hands on his arms to keep him from leaving. “Not here,” he told him. “This isn’t the place to go off about this.”

Mickey was a pro at biting his tongue, there wasn’t a joke he hadn’t heard at least a couple dozen times already; of course he knew Evans was right, that lashing out wouldn’t accomplish anything besides getting him tossed. He just felt so fucking _raw_. Ian’s absence was like a wound, like a festering, gaping hole in his chest, too painful to ignore. Those cocksuckers had their girlfriends here, their wives, their kids. Ian was supposed to be there too and it was their fault, people like them, that he wasn’t. He stopped to suck in a breath, hopeful that the air-conditioned air would chill his boiling blood. “They’re flying a fuckin’ rainbow flag,” he muttered. “It’s bullshit.”

“Yeah, I know it is,” Evans acknowledged. “But I’m not letting you get into a fight here today.”

Mickey scowled. “Listen, Fran, I don’t need your help.”

“You know, you should be grateful. I usually charge fifteen bucks an hour and eat all the food I want.” He released Mickey’s arms and patted his capped head. “And that’s Miss Fine to you.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey grunted through his almost-but-not-quite smile and swatted Evans’ hand away. “C’mon, shit’s starting.”

The Catchers Throwing Competition was starting, to be precise. It would be followed by Pitchers Bunting for Points, Outfielders Throwing for Accuracy, Situational Hitting for Points and finally the Home Run Derby. Mickey was participating in the Situational Hitting for Points competition; getting balls to drop where he wanted them was his forte, not power hitting.

He was relieved to find that the jokes had petered out while he’d been cooling off. He and Evans settled against the front of the dugout railing to watch the International League and Pacific Coast League players vie for bragging rights. Stools and plastic chairs littered the dirt in front of both dugouts, accommodating the myriad of people on the field who were there to watch as well. 

The Catchers Throwing Competition was as boring as it sounded; the Pitchers Bunting for Points event was only interesting because Mickey was picturing Ian trying to do it the entire time. Evans noticed Mickey smiling to himself and correctly guessed his thoughts. “Ian any good with the bat?”

“Nah,” Mickey chuckled, “he holds it like it’s gonna bite him.”

Evans pursed his lips. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Evans shrugged, “it’s just interesting that the first time I see you smile today is when you’re thinking about him.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. What did Evans know? Ian had been in his head non-fucking-stop. “Maybe I’m not smilin’ ‘cause I’m surrounded by morons.”

“You forgot to say present company excluded.”

Mickey side-eyed his grinning friend. “No, I didn’t.”

Evans laughed, slung an arm over Mickey’s shoulders and left it there for the remainder of the competition, holding fast every time Mickey would try to shrug him off, occasionally tickling his ear just to get on his last nerve. Having friends was enormously overrated.

The Outfielders Throwing Competition for Accuracy was up next, thirty-five minutes only slightly more entertaining than watching paint dry. Evans struck up a conversation with a fellow PawSox player, one of two that had made the All-Star team, and Mickey’s mind took the opportunity to steer back to thoughts of Ian. 

They hadn’t spoken in four days; not so much as a text message between them, both of them stuck in this limbo where Mickey was meant to be sorting his shit out but just kept spinning his wheels instead. He didn’t know how getting over someone worked but constantly thinking about them didn’t seem to be an effective method. He just fucking missed him; the longer they were apart, all the more. He’d be comparably fine one minute and overwhelmed by sadness the next, the smallest reminder of Ian all the trigger he needed to sink back into his new habit of being miserable. 

So he’d been drinking; drowning his grief in spiced rum every day and night, avoiding whiskey and beer and most definitely tequila because they all tasted too much like Ian. He’d been wasted when Evans had called; ready to spill his secrets if not quite his guts. _All I want to do is think with my goddamned head_ , he remembered saying, _but my heart won’t fuck off_. No wonder Evans had shown up and hadn’t left his side, he refused to watch his friend’s demise on TV.

But Mickey had pulled himself together for the start of All-Star week; gotten himself to Columbus, a little worse for wear, definitely foul tempered, but there nonetheless and reasonably present. That was all he could manage without Ian. Reaping any joy from it seemed to be out of scope. 

The crowd let out a collective cheer that jarred him from his thoughts. The throwing competition was over; a player named Shaffer had won for the IL. The organizers presented him with a plaque and he retreated to the sidelines to show it off, embracing his girlfriend and kissing her sweetly before he took a seat. As accustomed to the presence of his teammates' girlfriends as Mickey was, the sight made his stomach drop to his toes and his gaze followed it to the ground. 

Evans tapped the visor of his cap. “Hey, you’re up,” he reminded him. The players participating in the Situational Hitting for Points event were gathering near the on-deck circle, lifting their bats in salute when the announcer introduced them. Mickey sighed and dragged himself upright, yielding to the butt taps of his teammates as he passed through the dugout to find a Louisville Slugger with his name on it. He made it back in time to lift it feebly when they called his name and the crowd applauded loudest for him. Mickey grimaced, perpetually annoyed that he was so fucking popular.

They cheered even louder when it was his turn to step into the batter’s box. As luck would have it, the ball was singing off his bat today, his swing effortlessly finding the zone where he could do no wrong. He smacked the ball to all the targets around the field; the first and third base lines, up the middle, the right and left field gaps, the center wall and the gaps between the bases. 

Every crack of the bat felt like free therapy; each ball dropping where he wanted it another sip of tonic. This is what Ian didn’t understand, how much he _needed_ baseball; the feel of cowhide meeting wood, of his feet kicking up dirt between the bases, of making it to a line drive and flipping it to first in time to get out a runner, they were the things that breathed _life_ into him. They’d always been enough, before Ian, before everything was complicated and confusing; they were the things that let him be the only Mickey he even knew how to be anymore. Who the fuck was he without them? If he wasn’t baseball player Mickey or thug Mickey, then who? Ian’s Mickey? _Ian’s Mickey?_

He capped off his at bat with a hundred point homerun that sailed over the left field wall, putting himself ahead of the seven other players in the event. The final competitor came up, didn’t fare nearly as well, and Mickey was declared the winner. He accepted his plaque, was given a commemorative baseball bat that he didn’t want, and stood for a stone faced picture with the COO of Minor League Baseball. 

Evans tackled him when he returned to the sidelines, jumping and hollering like the endearing fool he was. His teammates were all smiles and happy high fives, but Mickey deadpanned his way back to his spot at the railing, hating every second of their attention even more than he usually did; loathing, more than anything, that none of them were Ian. He stared at the stupid plaque in his hands and felt nothing, refrained from throwing it across the field like he had half a mind to do, and finally forced himself to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, baseball wasn’t all he needed anymore. 

He dutifully waited out the conclusion of the final event, the Home Run Derby, with Evans sneaking anxious glances his way. A player from the PL won and just as Mickey was about to turn away from the field, the access tunnel opened again. The Columbus Gay Men’s choir were back to perform their rendition of Born This Way. 

With their sashaying hips and evocative hand motions, it was easily the gayest thing Mickey had ever seen. Shit like that didn’t help the stigma against gay men in baseball, he knew that much. Fortunately, he was saved from the comedic talents of his teammates when the first of the scheduled fireworks rocketed into the sky immediately after the men sang their last ‘Hey’. 

The last time he’d watched fireworks he’d been with Ian. The redhead had just pitched his first game at home and they’d gone into the clubhouse to change when Ian had asked if he was going back out to see them. “Yeah,” he’d replied coolly, as if it was what he always did, despite never having bothered to before. He remembered Ian watching him more than he’d watched the sky; his gaze so full of love even back then that Mickey hadn’t known what to do with it. He’d forced himself to stare at the lights, to pretend he couldn’t feel Ian’s eyes on him, that they weren’t sparking a fire in him more intense than any pyrotechnic. 

A blur of tears distorted the colors overhead and Mickey blinked them away.

“You okay?” Evans queried softly.

Mickey pulled a breath and turned towards the dugout. “Yeah, fine,” he lied. “I’m gonna go change. You wanna get a drink somewhere after?” 

He didn’t wait for Evans’ response, just hurried down the steps and into the clubhouse with his plaque and his bat clasped in his hands. He stuffed them in the first garbage can he passed and bee-lined for the locker room.

***

Mickey swirled the ice in his spiced rum with methodical flicks of his wrist, studying the churning amber liquid as if it might hold the answers he sought. Evans sat beside him, half-heartedly chatting up the cute barmaid that had served them, wisely granting Mickey a little quiet time to collect his thoughts. 

They’d found a pub half way between the hotel and the ballfield, a hole in the wall indistinguishable from all the other holes in the wall that Mickey had spent countless nights in over the years. Beckoned by two empty stools at the bar, they’d planted themselves down fifteen minutes prior and hadn’t exchanged a word since.

When Mickey finally spoke, Evans had to strain to hear him over the din. “Talk some fuckin’ sense to me,” he muttered, dropping his glass in favor of rubbing his temples. “Just talk some fuckin’ _sense_ to me,” he repeated, louder, a little desperately.

Evans slid a reassuring hand up his back and let it rest between his shoulder blades. “Mick, at the risk of getting punched in the face, I’m going to have to ask you to elaborate.”

Mickey rotated towards him. “I can’t think straight anymore.”

“I doubt you ever thought straight,” Evans quipped.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t actually.”

“Ian’s got me… all mixed up. Nothing makes any fuckin’ sense, ya know?”

Evans put a finger to his lips, hesitating with an eye creased in thought. “Yes,” he replied decisively.

Mickey straightened on his stool, blinking beneath elevated brows. “Why the fuck are you here again?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Mickey’s fists clenched and released. “Just... nevermind,” he mumbled, rotating back to his drink. He downed the contents and pointed at the empty glass. “Buy me another one of these.”

Evans signalled to the bartender to bring them another round while he watched Mickey from beneath his lashes, his fingers tapping on the bar. “Ian must have one helluva dick,” he declared. When Mickey pulled a face he continued with a shrug. “I’m just sayin’, if he’s got my man killer in this state, it must be spectacular.”

“It’s not his dick,” Mickey sighed. “I mean, it is, but that’s only part of it.”

“What’s the other part?” 

“It’s…” Mickey paused, unsure how to explain their love, Ian’s ridiculous movie quote the only thing coming to mind: _you complete me_. He sure as fuck wasn’t about to say that. The pad of a finger mapped the rim of his glass while he found the words. “I got used to havin’ him around,” he settled on. 

It seemed like an understatement, but it was the truest thing he could think of in the moment. He’d gotten used to falling asleep with him, waking up with him, touching him, being touched by him, seeing his smile, enduring his dorky monologues; he’d gotten used to loving him and being loved by him and now, _now_ , the only time anything felt right was when Ian was next to him. 

His answer proved to be enough for Evans who traded his teasing tone for a more contemplative one. “Can you imagine your life without him?”

“‘Course I can, it’s the one I’ve been imagining for twenty-four years.” 

“You still want it?”

“I dunno, man. I feel fuckin’… empty. I didn’t…” Mickey rubbed at his forehead, searching for words again, God he hated this. “I never felt fuckin’ _empty_ before. I didn’t know I was, but I was.” Evans laid a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed gently while Mickey tried to carry on talking around the lump that was growing in his throat. “What if I make it and I still feel like this? Then what’s the fuckin’ point?”

“Kinda like today?”

All Mickey could manage was a nod as the barmaid mercifully stopped in front of them with their drinks; his was down his throat, working against the knot, before she’d finished placing Evans’ beer on the bar.

“I know you’ve been asking yourself if you want to risk ball. Have you asked yourself the opposite? Is ball worth giving Ian up for? Ball’s not gonna love you back. It’d fuck you up the ass tonight and lose your number tomorrow.”

“Last week you told me to choose ball.”

“I didn’t get it then. I knew you guys were fucking; I knew you liked him, but this is different, man. You’re way far gone on this guy.”

“And if being together fucks everything up?”

“You do something else.”

“Like what? Kick ass and run drugs? I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“You could go to school. Learn a trade.”

“With what money?”

“You could coach.”

Mickey scoffed. “You think I got the patience for that?”

“Maybe. If it was kids. I’m just saying, going back to a life of crime isn’t a foregone conclusion. I don’t even think it’s likely. You’ve never given yourself enough credit. It wasn’t baseball that saved you from that life, Mick, you saved yourself.” Evans tipped his beer to his lips, twisted it on its coaster a few times after he set it back down. “What about coming out? Have you considered that option?”

“Not happenin’,” Mickey huffed.

“If you and Ian stay together, what kind of relationship will you have if you don’t?” When Mickey only shook his head, Evans cleared his throat and tried a different path. “I saw my brother this past weekend.”

“Okay.”

“I mentioned I went out with you and your _boyfriend_.” Mickey cringed at the word and Evans smiled. “When my poor brother got over his devastation that you had a boyfriend that wasn’t him, he told me about this guy named Billy Bean.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him.” Bean had played in the MLB in the early nineties and had come out as gay after he’d retired.

“So, you know how my brother is big into activism, right? Well, he knew a lot about this Bean guy because he’s an advocate for gays in baseball now. Apparently he was appointed the ‘Ambassador for Inclusion’ by the MLB.” Mickey rolled his eyes and Evans held up a hand to implore he hear him out. “He’s been in the media saying he wants to change things, break down the barriers. He’s looking for someone to come out, walk through the door he’s propping open; who better than one of the best players in the minors and his teammate.”

“You can’t be serious,” Mickey jeered.

“Look, the NFL, the NBA, they’ve had their first gay players come out. The MLB doesn’t want to be left in the dark ages. I really do think the league is making an effort.” 

“Gay choirs and rainbow flags?” Mickey snarked. “An ‘Ambassador for Inclusion’? You think that shit’s gonna make a difference?” 

“At least they’re trying, right? The coaches, a lot of the players, they’ve got a long way to go, but the league might be in your corner.”

“Even if, and that’s a big if, the league is in our corner, you know they’ll do fuck all about the bullshit that goes on in the locker room.”

“You’re probably right, but maybe Bean can help you with Meacham if it comes to that. Look, it’s just something to think about. No matter what you do, stay with Ian or not, come out or not, it’s going to be hard. You might as well pick the one that makes you happiest.” He pushed on the back of Mickey’s stool until he’d swivelled the brunet to face him. “But if you really want me to talk some sense to you, here it is. You, Mickey Milkovich, _miraculously_ found someone that doesn’t annoy you twenty-four fucking seven; you think that’s ever going to happen again?” He paused for dramatic effect, eyes comically wide. “You’d be a goddamned idiot to let him go.” He gulped the rest of his beer and rapped the bar top with his knuckle. “It’s almost your bedtime. Let’s get back to the hotel.” When Mickey tilted his head and served up a wry smile, Evans hooked an arm around his neck to urge him off his stool. “C’mon,” he cooed, “while we still have time to read a bedtime story.”

Mickey snorted a laugh and let his friend lead him out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Columbus Gay Men's Chorus really did perform at the MiLB All-Star game this year! I wanted to share this video of them singing "Born This Way" (although it's not from the All-Star game) because they're kinda fabulous. Watch until the end, they really get into it!  
> <https://youtu.be/XVwOS1DKG94>
> 
> Still @and_i_take_it on Twitter! Although I'm a terrible, terrible Twitter-er lol <3


	16. Chapter 16

Mickey stirred awake on game day with Ian on his mind and Evans’ dick in his sights. He groaned his displeasure at his friend. “Do you gotta walk around with your dick hangin’ out?” he complained as he sat up to rub the sleep from his eyes. Evans was stark naked, standing beside the pullout sofa he’d slept on for the last two nights, stretching out the kinks in his back with no shame.

“I just woke up,” he explained. “I have to piss.”

Mickey gestured at the object of contention. “You’ve got a half chub for fuck’s sake.”

“You bummed it’s not a full chub?”

“Yeah,” Mickey jeered. “I’m real desperate to see all four inches.”

“Hey, we can’t all have donkey dicks like your man.”

 _His man_. Evans kept referring to Ian like that. Mickey hadn’t asked him to stop and wasn’t sure he wanted him to. “You goin’ to the bathroom or what?”

“What’s that? You want me to come closer?”

“Bitch, you wish,” Mickey scoffed. He armed himself with a pillow and prepared to fire as Evans advanced.

Evans eyed Mickey with mock appreciation. “You know it, baby, I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

“Come any closer and I’ll cut it the fuck off.”

“You’ll have to touch it first,” Evans teased. He deflected the pillow Mickey aimed at his head and groped at the blankets covering his legs.

Mickey held them tight against his body as he tried to scoot out of reach of Evans’ probing hands. “Fuck _off_ ,” he swore. He spied Evans’ dick graze his mattress and shouted, “Get it the fuck off my sheets!”

Evans relented and stood up laughing. He flicked Mickey’s phone off the bedside table onto his lap. “Sext Ian, maybe then you’ll be able to stop drooling over my dick.”

“Bathroom. Now,” Mickey insisted.

“You sure you don’t want to get a picture first?” Evans taunted. He grinned at Mickey’s scowl and backed his way into the bathroom, wagging his groin as he went.

Mickey shook his head at his exasperating friend. He was sure Evans’ company was making him miss Ian all the more, probably the PawSox player’s plan all along, annoy the fuck out of him until he sought refuge with someone who didn’t.

He plucked his phone from his lap and settled against the headboard to check for messages; there were none. Five days. Ian had stuck to his promise for five full days and now it was the morning of the sixth. Mickey was itching to talk to him, had been on the verge of messaging him countless times, but had refrained. He just wanted to know he was okay, that he was coping, that he wasn’t drinking himself into a stupor every night like Mickey would have been if Evans hadn’t intervened. But he owed it to him to have concrete answers when he finally called, and he didn’t have them yet.

Evans emerged from the bathroom sans boner and slipped into his underwear. He crawled onto Mickey’s bed and lay beside him, looking up at his friend expectantly. “Did you message him?”

“No.”

“What are you waiting for?”

 _What was he waiting for?_ He wasn’t waiting, he was trapped, struggling under the weight of too many conflicting emotions. He tilted his head back and heaved a sigh to the heavens.

“If you message him this morning, there’s still a chance he could make it to the game.”

Mickey gaped at his friend. “To the game?” Not only had he nearly forgotten there was a game, it didn’t occur to him that Ian could still come.

“You’ve got an extra ticket.”

“No, I’ll see him tomorrow,” he reasoned. “That’s what we agreed on.”

“But you want him here.”

“Yeah, but-“

Evans groaned loudly and rolled his eyes in a theatrical arc. He snatched Mickey’s phone out of his hands and shot off the bed before the brunet could grab it back. Mickey gave chase but came up short at the bathroom door as Evans locked himself behind it. “Open the door, asshole!” he yelled, but no amount of banging or cursing could budge the hinges. 

Evans opened it wide a moment later, sporting a smug expression that could only mean one thing. He cheerfully handed Mickey his phone and pushed past him to flop back onto the bed. Mickey transferred his glare from Evans to the screen. The text messaging app was open with Ian’s name at the top.

 **[Mickey]** i’ve got an extra ticket to the game if you can make it

He expected anger to overtake him, for that familiar rush of heat and tension to strike his stomach, but the nerves in his gut only tingled; he was nervous, suddenly inexplicably anxious that Ian might say no. He stared at his phone, trying and failing to make sense of his own reaction, too long for Evans not to notice his uncertainty.

“You’re welcome,” he trilled from the bed.

Mickey looked up at him wearily. “Evans,” he groaned, “what the fuck?”

“Look, you know I love you grumpy but I can’t babysit tomorrow. We’ve got to move this along.”

Mickey crossed the floor to the bed and dropped onto it heavily. He didn’t know whether to pummel or thank his friend so he simply sat with his back against the headboard and glowered at him, hyperaware of the weight and silence of the phone he clutched.

“You already know what you want,” Evans continued. “So get out of your own way.”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

“It is though. Just have some faith in yourself, have some faith in Ian, have a little faith in the league even.”

 _Faith in yourself._ Ian and Evans had been trying to drill the same message into him; that he’d be okay without baseball, that there was no chance he’d slink back into delinquency. Was he so far removed from that way of life that he could stop being afraid of it? He’d been trying to escape, fleeing from his demons with ball and bat in hand for as long as he could remember. Had he been so focused on getting away that he hadn’t noticed they’d stopped chasing him?

And if baseball hadn’t been his path to salvation, would he have just found another? Did he really deserve the glory he’d always deflected? After all, it’d been _him_ that had dragged his ass to practice countless times, broken and bloodied, but more determined than ever. It was _his_ tireless efforts, despite the abundance of odds stacked against him, that had gotten him this far.

“I ever tell you how much my dad hated me playin’ ball?”

“No, why would he?”

“It cost money that we didn’t have. Besides, the more I played, the less I could work for him. So I hid it; hid my equipment, lied about where I’d been. He beat the shit out of me when he found out I made the elite team at thirteen. I missed two months in the spring that year but came back and won MVP.” He could picture the trophy they’d given him, a wooden block engraved with his name and a resin baseball figure holding a bat on top. He’d doused it in lighter fluid and set it on fire, reduced it to non-incriminating ashes and melted plastic. “I wouldn’t let him take ball from me, no matter what I had to do. This feels like that, only now there’s nothing I can do and it’s not just ball anymore, it’s Ian too.” 

“C’mon Mick, since when do you just roll over and take it?” Evans protested. When Mickey cocked his head and pursed his lips Evans chuckled. “That was a terrible analogy but I’m serious, you have options. Be prepared for the worst case scenario, be ready to accept that, that’s the choice you’re making, but shoot for the fucking best and God help anyone who tries to get between you and what’s yours. You’ve never given up on anything, why start now? Keep Ian, keep baseball, and don’t settle for anything less.”

Mickey squinted at Evans as his friend’s words struck a chord. Maybe _that_ was why he didn’t feel like himself anymore, why he didn’t know who he was without baseball or crime, because at his core Mickey fought, had always fought, be it with his fists or with his resolve, and being with Ian under these circumstances had made him feel so helpless that he’d given up.

“Look, I get it, you’re afraid to want it all,” Evans went on, “afraid to lose it all, afraid to try, but if you feel all of that then you know damn well it’s something worth having, something worth fighting for.” He sat up; put his back against the headboard beside Mickey. His dark eyes, usually jovial, were more intense than Mickey had ever seen them. “But if you wait until all the fear is gone, it’ll be too late.”

Mickey’s gaze fell to the patterns stitched into the comforter that covered his legs. _Fear_. He’d always hated that word. Letting Meacham or his teammates scare him into giving Ian up felt too much like the hold his father had had on him. If he had learned anything from that experience it was that the only thing fear did was keep you from living.

“I feel like all my words of wisdom are wasted on you,” Evans sighed after Mickey was quiet for too long.

They weren’t wasted. They were getting through more than Evans knew. The way he’d felt on the field, the things Ian had said, Evans’ advice, his own revelations, they were all coming together for him and culminating in what he knew would necessitate an act of courage, or hope, or both.

When he’d started this with Ian, it had felt less like making a decision and more like surrendering to an inevitability, something completely out of his control, something reckless, transient and most likely doomed. But if he could turn this terrifying love into an action, a manifestation of emotion, a choice; if he could find a moment of faith where he decided, with all of himself, that he would be with Ian no matter what, the way that Ian had already done for him, then he knew there’d be no force strong enough to tear them apart. That thought opened a way forward for them that didn’t seem so bleak.

And baseball? He already knew he would risk it for Ian, but more importantly, would he risk it for himself? For a chance to have everything he wanted? Could he set aside his fear for the chance to gain his whole life? 

Mickey knew a lot about risk, he met it on the bases every day, and one thing he knew for certain was that you couldn’t make progress without it; you couldn’t steal second and keep your foot on first. If he was too spineless to run, if he was standing on that major league field one day knowing he’d played it safe, settled for first, could he live with that? Could he live with that version of himself? _No_ , he thought, finally, definitively, _no_. He wouldn’t be thug Mickey, baseball Mickey, Ian’s Mickey or any other kind of Mickey if he didn’t fight like hell to get to second. 

When his phone chimed and he read the text from Ian promising he’d be there, he didn’t hesitate to respond with his hotel and room number, didn’t think for a second to tell him not to come. As he peered down at their messages, his lips drew into an easy smile and he felt an unfamiliar buoyancy lift his heart. Was this the moment he’d been waiting for? Could it be that anticlimactic?

Evans seemed to think so because he instantly seized him in a crushing hug that Mickey tried to squirm away from. “I’ve been taking care of you for three days, you can give me a hug,” Evans demanded.

“Takin’ care of me,” Mickey scoffed as he struggled against Evans’ embrace.

“Yeah, you fucking ingrate,” he scolded sweetly into the junction of Mickey’s shoulder and neck while he forcibly restrained the brunet’s arms at his sides, “like keeping you from getting kicked out of the league last night.”

Mickey had spent the previous day being shuffled from one event to another once again; a lengthy photo session, more interviews with media, and finally an All-Star Gala that made him question whether being an All-Star was more punishment than reward. Evans’ had attended the gala with him, tiresomely insisted on calling himself Mickey’s date, and had kept Mickey in check when many of the team and league officials had eyed his knuckle tattoos with blatant distaste. All while Mickey had been trying and failing to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest that persisted through every conversation he had, every picture he took, every word he spoke. Maybe Evans had a point.

Mickey conceded with a sigh and stopped trying to free himself. He wrapped his arms around his friend and attempted some gratitude. “Thanks for being such a persistent motherfucker.”

“You’re welcome,” Evans cooed. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he added with an affectionate tussle of Mickey’s hair.

“You’re so fuckin’ annoying though.”

“Love you, too,” Evans laughed.

If Mickey hadn’t known he was ruined before, he’d have suspected it now given how uncomfortable it felt to have the naked chest of a man that wasn’t Ian’s against his own. He gently extracted himself from his friend and thumbed at his nose. “Let’s get dressed and get some breakfast.”

“Good idea, we’ve got to get you fuelled up for all the sex you’re going to have tonight.”

“I’ve gotta get fuelled up for the game,” Mickey corrected him.

“Oh, thinking about the game, are we?”

Mickey punched him in the arm none too gently before lifting off the bed. 

Buffalo was a five hour drive from Columbus, Mickey calculated as he dressed, which meant at least five hours worth of nervous energy he’d have to dispel before Ian arrived. Breakfast, lunch, a long workout, a longer shower, some more food, maybe that would do it. 

He tugged on his pants with his swelling heart lodged securely in his throat, realizing the day had taken a wildly unexpected turn and that, for the first time since he’d arrived, he was finally excited. 

***

If Mickey thought baseball breathed life into him, it was nothing compared to the rush of air he drew when Ian walked into his hotel room nearly seven hours later. He blew in like a spring breeze after a long winter, carrying the promise of new beginnings with him. And he looked so good doing it, well rested and more tan than Mickey remembered, with his hair swept back, uncharacteristically tamed. As nice as it was, Mickey hoped he got the chance to mess it up later.

Ian took a quick step into the room and let the door fall closed behind him. “Hi,” he said softly, his unease evident in the steadying breath it took to get the small word past his lips. He stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie and worried his lip.

“Hey,” Mickey replied. He didn’t have a lot of time to address Ian’s uncertainty; the bus was due to leave for the field momentarily and their reunion deserved a deeper conversation than a minute would allow. As much as Mickey wanted to climb into his arms, and stay there, it would have to wait. If only he’d arrived a little sooner.

“Um, the bus is loading out front.”

“I know, I’ve gotta go,” Mickey told him apologetically.

“It’s okay.”

“Evans has your ticket. He’ll go to the game with you.”

“Evans is here?” He looked past a nodding Mickey and caught sight of Evans rifling through his bag for clothes. The PawSox player lifted a hand in greeting and Ian’s eyes darted back to Mickey’s. “And he’s naked.”

“He’s always naked,” Mickey replied with a dismissive wave.

Ian frowned. “Okay. Uh, should I worry about being seen around here? I could wear a ball cap or something.”

“Nah. There’s no one from our team around.”

There was a long pause while they searched each other’s faces, both a little tongue-tied with too many words swirling in their minds. “You should probably get going,” Ian suggested when the silence stretched uncomfortably.

“Right, yeah.” Mickey bent to hitch his bag onto his shoulder and Ian moved closer to the wall to give him room to pass. As he stepped by, Ian’s hand flew out to grasp his own.

Mickey glanced down at their linked hands, wondered at the undeniable rush that a simple touch from Ian could invoke, at how healing such a small gesture could be, and looked back at him. He drove the breath he’d held out through his nose and let his bag crash to the floor so he could turn and pull him into a firm hug. His eyes squeezed shut when Ian’s arms encircled him in turn, embracing him just as fiercely. Mickey felt him tuck his nose into his shoulder and take a slow breath. 

“Meet me back here after the game,” he whispered into Ian’s ear and reluctantly surrendered his hold when Ian nodded. He smiled at him reassuringly, patted his cheek, picked up his bag and reached for the doorknob.

“Make them all your bitches!” Evans called when he heard the latch click open.

“That’s the plan!” Mickey shouted in reply and left. He peeked over his shoulder for one last glimpse of Ian before the door closed.

He made it to the bus with no time to spare, the very last player to board. The seats were nearly full, the extra space he enjoyed on Bisons’ road trips nowhere to be found. He was forced to sit at the front with a teammate that talked his ear off the entire fifteen minute ride to the field, but even that couldn’t dampen his rejuvenated spirit.

***

As a starting pitcher, the majority of Ian’s baseball career was spent watching games from the sidelines, but he rarely had the opportunity to do it from the stands. As exhilarating as it was to be on the bench, there was nothing like being surrounded by an electric crowd; the intensity of their collective racket, the sights and smells that didn’t reach the dugout, the banter that could only be heard when you were in the midst of it. He’d almost forgotten how much he enjoyed it. It didn’t hurt that it was a perfect summer’s evening for a ballgame and that their seats were some of the best in the park, only a half dozen rows from the front and just to the right of home plate.

They’d arrived just in time to catch the International League warm-up. Mickey was on the field, stretching with the other infielders, making Ian all the more grateful for their proximity to the playing field. Of course he couldn’t take his eyes off his favourite second baseman and Evans observed him with unconcealed amusement.

“Surely everyone on your team has figured out that you two are infatuated with each other.”

“What? No,” Ian emerged from his daze enough to mutter.

“Un huh,” Evans replied with obvious scepticism.

“They haven't.”

“The Bisons should be easier to beat then, considering they’re all blind.”

Ian huffed but chose to drop it; he had every intention of ogling Mickey the entire game and knew he had no leg to stand on. “I didn’t know you were coming to Columbus,” he said to steer the subject away from himself. He hadn’t had much of a chance to talk to the PawSox player; they’d left the hotel as soon as Evans had gotten dressed and had shared a cab to Huntington Park.

“Last minute decision.”

“You’ve been here all week?”

“Yup.”

“Staying with Mickey?”

Evans must have caught the hint of envy in Ian’s voice because he leaned back in his seat and adopted a more compassionate tone. “He’d have traded me for you in a heartbeat.”

Ian’s lips compressed into a thin smile. “And you, uh,” he cleared his throat and tried for a casual air, “spend a lot of time naked?” Evans was an attractive guy, straight or not, he’d rather he kept his clothes on around Mickey.

“He’s no more interested in my dick than he is his brothers,” Evans assured him.

Ian suspected that that was true but felt like telling him to fuck off regardless. He opted to bite his tongue for the time being, still unsure if it was even his place anymore. “He been doing okay?”

Evans cocked his head in thought. “It got a little dicey, but I think he’s okay now.”

“Dicey? Is that code for 'he nearly punched someone'?”

“He hasn't been in a great mood. Even for him.”

Ian could read between the lines, Evans had been keeping him out of trouble. The thought that Mickey’s All-Star week could have been ruined by what was going on between them made him queasy. “I’m glad you were here,” he said sincerely, “I wanted to be.” 

Evans shrugged off his gratitude and turned his gaze back to the field. “How about you? You been okay?” 

“Uh, I guess so, yeah.” There’d been some drinking, a lot of jogging, several deep conversations with inanimate objects, but he hadn’t broken down, hadn’t caved, had pitched his practice pitches and kept his head up to watch the games. On his two days off he’d even emerged from his room often enough to keep his roommates from suspecting he was dead. 

There had been plenty of moments of crippling doubt, when Mickey’s words at the playground of horrors would plague him, but he’d picture Mickey’s eyes that night on the slide, reflect on how much had been revealed in their unshielded depths, remind himself that he knew, that they both knew, what Mickey really wanted. Oddly enough, the more time that passed, the easier it got. It turned out that when he wasn’t panicking, his mind was sufficiently clear to remember what his heart had known for weeks: that Mickey would always end up with him. It was the only thing that made any kind of sense. So he’d repeated that thought like a mantra and held his own.

They resumed watching the players’ warm-up as the seats in their section began to fill. Mickey tossed the ball around the bases with his teammates, a lone Bison, separated from the herd, representing his team in a crisp red and white Buffalo uniform. Ian unzipped his hoodie and stripped it off to reveal the Bisons’ t-shirt he wore underneath.

Evans let out a jolly chuckle. “Does it have Milkovich on the back?”

“No,” Ian scoffed, but now that Evans mentioned it, he kinda wanted one that did.

“Maybe if you put him in a better mood later he’ll sign it for you,” he quipped.

Ian blinked at the implication, hoping Evans knew something he didn’t. “I’d like to try.”

He’d been doing his best to not read too much into Mickey inviting him there, too afraid to be wrong and thwarted. He’d vacillated between excitement and dread in the hours after Mickey’s text and had settled somewhere around restlessness by the time he’d arrived in Columbus. He’d gained no clarity from their awkward encounter in the hotel room and he was still dying to know if Mickey had come to a decision but had resolved to put it out of his mind until after the game.

“If he takes my advice he’ll let you try.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re in my corner?”

“I’m in Mickey’s corner,” he clarified, “but I’m rooting for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Mickey doesn’t have a lot of people,” he continued. “Not that he wants a lot of people, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need anybody. It’s good he found someone.” He snorted a laugh, “I never would have guessed it’d be the guy in the Goofy costume though.”

Ian winced at the embarrassing memory and carried on like Evans hadn’t mentioned it. “I don’t have a lot of people either. I’ve got brothers and sisters, but they’ve been pretty disinterested in my life for awhile now.”

“Sorry,” Evans offered but Ian brushed it off. “Well, we lucked out with Mickey. He still takes the time to message me if he hears I had a bad game. Two weeks ago I got an error when a ball skipped through my legs and he sent me a text that just said, ‘it’s baseball, not dodgeball’.” Ian laughed, loud, and Evans snickered with him. “He’ll always be there for you, even if it’s just to tell you you’re a dumbass.”

“That why you showed up here?”

“Yeah, and because of all the times he jumped into a bar fight with me or came through the door with a six-pack after the coach chewed me out or threw a blanket over me on the couch and stuffed a pillow under my head. It’s the little things with Mickey but it adds up. Besides, that one time you finally make him laugh, you feel like you just won the World Series.” 

Ian knit his brow. “Mickey laughs all the time.”

Evans turned a toothy, charmed smile on him. “That’s adorable."

Ian’s eyes found their way back to the topic of their conversation. The IL warm-up was wrapping up and the players were trickling into the clubhouse. Mickey tipped his cap to them on his way past and a familiar flutter hit Ian in his belly. Evidently, it struck the lady seated next to him as well. She squealed, “Did you see that?” and fanned herself with both hands. It prompted a lengthy discussion between her and her companion about Mickey’s many virtues, not least of which was how great he looked in uniform. Ian had to bite his tongue to keep from adding volumes to their exchange and offered to get beer for he and Evans while they awaited the start of the game.

The players were back on the field when he returned, most of them lined up on the first and third base lines with the starters waiting in their respective dugouts to be introduced by the announcer. The coach was presented first, followed by the rest of the starting line-up by batting order. Mickey jogged across the grass when his name was called, apparently batting second, and lifted a hand in salute to the eleven thousand plus fans that applauded him. A high-spirited Evans bellowed, “Mickeeeeeeeeey,” like a bullhorn, startling Ian into sloshing beer from his cup.

The Star-Spangled Banner soon permeated the park, belted out by a local songstress, and finally the game ball was delivered via the Misty Blues All Women Skydiving Team. “There must not have been an All Gay Men Skydiving Team,” Evans remarked, confusing the hell out of Ian. 

The game began with the PCL batting first in the top of the inning. Mickey took up position at second looking as confident as ever, poised and ready for combat. He helped pull off a double play to end the three hit, one run inning and Ian cheered along with the rest of the predominately IL fans. 

The bottom of the first brought him to the plate, his trademark swagger on full display, every inch the All-Star he was, a considerable relief after the last few at bats Ian had witnessed before he’d been suspended. The ladies beside Ian swooned and he could definitely relate; he’d be shocked if anybody in the park past the age of puberty couldn’t. Mickey strolled into the batter’s box like he owned it, like he was the king of the game, the park, the entire fucking universe, and Ian had an intense desire to rise to his feet and lay his claim, to notify everyone in attendance that he’d tapped that ass. On multiple occasions. Hard. 

Evans jumped to his feet instead, barking, “Mickey bay-BEEEE,” until he’d pulled Ian out of his lust filled thoughts. He plopped onto the edge of his seat when Mickey was squared away and surged back up when he laced his third pitch into right field. Ian joined him, whooping just as deafeningly; a celebration that might have been a little exuberant for a base hit in the first inning if it wasn’t the All-Star game. Mickey made it safely to first and shook his head when he glanced over at them but his smile was undeniable. 

Evans started up a chant of, “Steal! Steal!” that most of their section and the next took up. “He’s going to curse us out for this later,” he predicted over the noise of the crowd he’d riled up. He laughed at himself as he said it and Ian realized why Mickey tolerated him; the guy gave exactly zero fucks and it was kind of great.

Mickey didn’t disappoint, taking off for second a few pitches into the next at bat. He slid in uncontested, getting such a good jump on the ball that the catcher didn’t attempt to throw him out. The fans roared as Mickey dusted himself off, taking up their “Steal! Steal!” chant again a moment later. Mickey crept well off the base as the pitcher readied himself for his next throw and dashed down the line as soon as he’d committed to his pitch; trotting into third without even having to hit the dirt. The brazen grin he was sporting afterward had Evans cackling beside Ian, “That cocky fucker’s gonna go for home.” 

“Steal home?”

“He’s got this guy’s number. Just watch. Everyone’s here for a show and Mickey will make damn sure they get one,” Evans laughed.

And sure enough, with no one guarding him at third, Mickey took a giant lead off the base and didn’t so much as give the pitcher a chance to start his windup before he was sprinting for the plate. The flustered pitcher tossed the ball to home as quickly as he could but the pitch was wide and low, off the dirt and out of reach of the catcher. The park erupted as it bounced to the backstop and Mickey trotted safely over the plate. Ian couldn’t comprehend how his teammates only crowded him at the end of the IL dugout for enthusiastic high fives and butt pats rather than fall to their knees and offer to suck his dick there and then. 

Mickey had set the tone for the game; two high energy, high scoring, highly entertaining innings followed before he was back at the plate in the third. This time he belted a pitch into the alley between left and center, a stand-up double that had the fans on their feet again. He didn’t get the chance to steal; the next batter brought him home with a single to right field. 

The reserve players would be coming in soon, but Ian hoped Mickey would get one more at bat before they did. His wish was granted in the bottom of the fifth, when Mickey hit a sacrifice fly to center field, advancing the runners and bringing in the tying run. He left the field to a standing ovation that Ian couldn’t have hooted or hollered harder for. He and Evans finally relaxed back into their seats to watch the remainder of the game, knowing Mickey was done for the day.

“You know, when he started in Double-A, some of the guys tried to stick him with the nickname ‘Mouse’,” Evans claimed.

Ian chuckled, “Because he’s little and his name is Mickey?”

“And he’s fast, hard to catch. It fits, right?”

“I guess, but I can’t imagine that went over well.”

“Oh, it didn’t. It lasted maybe half a day, but it’s times like these that I wish it had stuck; they’d be chasing mice all over the field right now.”

Ian could well envision the comical display and how annoyed Mickey would have been by it all. He could also picture Evans being the one to bring the mice.

“You know, your fastball could get you here next year,” Evans praised, “if it doesn’t get you to The Show first.” 

“You think so? Sometimes I wonder if it’s enough. Hitters like fastballs.”

“Sure, every hitter likes fastballs, just like everybody likes cake, but it’s not so great when someone’s shoving it into your mouth by the pound. Yours is one of the best I’ve faced. ”

Ian smiled at the comparison, enjoying Evans’ company and his ability to keep his mind off what was to come. The last four innings crept by slowly, the teams playing it a little closer to the hip, and Ian was reminded that baseball was a game to be savored, not gulped. He let Evans steer their conversation from one topic to the next as the seconds ticked toward him finally being in Mickey’s company again.

The Pacific Coast League won the game, but to no one’s surprise, Mickey snagged the International League MVP. This time he presented a wide grin for the camera and tucked his prize safely under his arm as he left the field. 

*** 

Ian loitered outside Mickey’s hotel room with his heart beating furiously in his throat, immobile, willing his leaden arm to lift and knock. He’d lingered at the park for as long as he could, given Mickey a chance to change and deal with whatever media he had to, but he’d ditched Evans and rushed over as soon as he was sure he’d be back. Now he couldn’t bring himself to actually go in.

He told himself that Mickey had asked him here, that he wouldn’t have if it was only to tell him that they were over, but doubt was suddenly merciless; plaguing him, fisting his hands at his sides, making his breaths shallow. He rested his forehead gently against the door and sent a silent plea to the baseball Gods, imploring them to let him have this one thing in return for all his years of worship. He’d never ask for anything else.

The door opened and he fell forward into Mickey.

“Jesus!” the brunet exclaimed as he backed them into the room.

“Hi!” Ian squawked. He heard the door click shut behind him. 

“What were you doin’?”

“Uh, you know, just being really calm and collected,” Ian quipped. Mickey dropped his hands from his arms and put a little space between them once Ian was standing on his own two feet. 

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ian affirmed but he was shaking his head no. He’d been having a hard enough time thinking straight a moment before, Mickey’s black dress shirt, grey tie and grey slacks had driven away any hope he had of forming coherent thoughts. It didn’t help matters that he was sporting enough stubble for it to tentatively be called a beard. Ian crammed his hands into his jean pockets to keep from reaching for him, a tactic he’d tried earlier and failed at. “You look good,” he croaked.

Mickey glanced down at himself. “Dress code. S’posed to be _professional_.”

Ian nodded. He had no idea if Mickey looked professional or not but he had accomplished looking hot as fuck. He was gawking, it was probably weird, so he tried to act like he had his wits about him, pulled it together enough to stammer, “Um, you were amazing today.”

Mickey tucked his lip between his teeth and evaluated him. “I can’t do this,” he muttered.

Ian’s eyes widened in alarm. “Can’t do what?” he spluttered.

Mickey grasped Ian’s bare forearms and tugged his hands gently from his pockets. “I can’t stand a foot away from you when I haven’t seen you in a week,” he told him truthfully. He pulled them chest to chest, dropped Ian’s arms behind his back and brought his hands up to the redhead’s neck. “I’m glad you made it. I missed you a whole fuckin’ lot.”

“I missed you too,” Ian managed. He observed Mickey’s eyes, they were different somehow, entirely untroubled, the eyes of a man free of reservations. He didn’t know what to make of it and couldn’t form the words to ask. He held him stiffly and waited.

“How’d you get to Columbus, anyway? Where’s your shit?” 

Ian had come in empty handed, not quite confident enough to presume he should bring up his things. He briefly considered making something up but blurted the truth before he could think. “I bought a car.”

“You what?”

“I bought a car.“

“You bought a fuckin’ car?” Mickey’s expression was equal parts amusement and bemusement.

“The bus wouldn’t have gotten me here in time and I couldn’t find a rental place that would rent to a twenty-two year old that still had cars left. I didn’t know what else to do, so I-“

“So you bought a car.”

A little concerned that Mickey kept repeating the same thing, he tried to play it down. “It’s basically garbage. You can only get in through the passenger door, the windows are all stuck, it sounds like a dying whale and it needs a jump to get it start-“

“You-,” Mickey interrupted then stopped, pausing long enough to crack a delighted smile and shake his head. He yanked Ian down and pressed their lips together. 

Ian returned the quick kiss without closing his eyes. He was too anxious to relax into it, too afraid to have his heart shattered. “Mickey-,” he began, pulling away. 

“Me and you in the end,” Mickey announced.

Ian blinked, hoping he’d heard him right. “What?”

“That’s what I want.”

“That’s what you want,” Ian echoed.

“I’m all in.”

"You’re all in.” Whatever affliction had befallen Mickey a minute before was now having a similar effect on Ian. His mind couldn’t wrap itself around anything the brunet was saying. 

“On one condition.”

“On one-” 

“Stop repeating everything I say.”

“Is that the condition?”

“No, that’s not… Just listen.” Ian narrowed his eyes and braced himself for the ‘but’ that would negate everything Mickey had just said, his heart pounding so hard it quite literally ached, his fingertips pressed so fiercely into Mickey’s back that they ached too. “We fight. If this all goes to shit, I can live with that, but I’m gonna go down swinging.”

“We fight,” he repeated and upon realizing he had, added, “What does that mean?”

“It means we don’t let them take anything from us. Not baseball, not each other, not anything, not without a fight.”

Ian stared at him, unsure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. He rested his lips against Mickey’s temple, trying to stifle the broken sound that threatened to claw its way out. His hands moved up to cup Mickey’s head. “What kind of condition is that?” he whisper laughed through his swollen throat. “I’d fight a fucking army.” 

Mickey breathed a chuckle into Ian’s neck and burrowed his face after it. Tattooed fingers found their way into red hair, clutching him so severely that Ian could have wept just from the relief it conveyed. He rocked Mickey in a frantic embrace, found he couldn’t make it tight enough, couldn’t get close enough. “You wanna do this for you?” he had to remember to ask.

“Baseball’s not enough for me anymore,” Mickey swore.

Ian touched their foreheads together, took a ragged lungful of air. “I love you,” he said softly. He didn’t give Mickey a breath to answer with, just kissed him, properly, and rendered him speechless. He’d spent the last six days trying to convince himself that Mickey wasn’t done with him and now here Mickey was, _his_ , and Ian’s weary heart wanted to gush. “I wasn’t sure if-“

“I know, I’m sorry,” Mickey soothed. He pushed strands of hair out of Ian’s earnest face, “You can be sure.”

Ian pressed his forehead against Mickey's again, shut his eyes and held the pose as his thumbs stroked the brunet's cheeks, giving Mickey's words all the time they needed to seep into his battered soul. Mickey held tight, warm hands tracing comforting patterns into Ian's back until the redhead took a deep breath of Mickey's sorely missed scent and whispered, "You’re really mine." Not a question, an affirmation, he just wanted to hear it out loud.

"Yeah," Mickey breathed, "always was."

Ian mirrored the soft smile that spread across Mickey's features and leaned in to catch his lips. He moved his own gently against the brunet's, savoring Mickey's taste, the delicate scrape of his beard, the deep hum he groaned when their tongues met. The kiss grew more heated with each second that passed, their mouths, their tongues, their searching fingers, all driven by the desperate desire to put all of this behind them, to feel connected again after they'd been forced apart, to assure themselves that they were each other's and that nothing would, or could, change that.

Ian turned them into the wall, pressed Mickey’s back against it and met his eyes. The brunet's hands were under his shirt, scorching his bare skin with their fire. He nipped at Mickey's lips, nudged him away to mutter, “I like this,” as he ran a thumb across his scruff and then dove back in. “And this,” he added between kisses, moving his fingers down to skim the brunet’s tie.

Mickey’s eyes stalked Ian’s mouth as he spoke, blue pools flash flooded with need. “Well, it’s been at least five minutes since I’ve had a dick up my ass," he taunted. A devilish smirk seized his lips and his gaze flicked up to Ian’s.

“I’m such an asshole,” Ian chuckled lowly.

Mickey’s tongue swept across his bottom lip. “So make it up to me,” he suggested in a tone so saturated with sex it left no doubt as to exactly how he would like Ian to do that. It called to mind images of him at the game, of him owning the field, of Ian wanting him so much it felt like a prerequisite for life.

Ian grinned his way back to Mickey’s mouth. “You know, I had a lot of time to think about you this week,” he mumbled between easy, lingering kisses, his confidence well fed by the lilt in Mickey’s voice. “About all the things I never got to do to you.” He’d spent a fair number of hours fantasizing about Mickey in the days they’d been apart, even plagued by sorrow, his libido remained stubbornly intact. “Can you believe I’ve never sucked your dick?” he asked as he tugged at Mickey’s shirt and slowly untucked it from his pants. “That was a massive oversight on my part,” he continued. “A guy like you, walking around without your dick sucked; it’s a fucking crisis.”

Mickey lifted an interested brow. “Is it now?” 

“It really is.”

“That sounds serious,” he surmised. “You planning on doin' somethin' about it?”

Ian snuck another kiss onto his lips and smiled as he lowered himself to his knees, sliding his hands down Mickey’s body as he went. His fingers landed on his belt buckle just as the lock on the hotel room door beeped.

Their heads whipped to the entrance where they watched the knob turn and the door lift away from it’s jam. Evans appeared behind it, letting in too much bright light from the hall for their comfort. He quickly closed the door and beamed at them. “Wow, you guys don’t waste any time,” he observed. Undeterred by their positions, he stepped into the room and walked toward them. “Gotta get my phone charger,” he explained.

Two sets of eyes followed his path to his bag where he rummaged for his charger, one infuriating minute of rustling before he lifted it in triumph. “Found it!” he exclaimed happily. He strode across the room, backing into the hall with double thumbs raised in their direction. “Carry on,” he advised, “I approve.” He winked and let the door close in front of him.

Ian looked up at Mickey, his hands still frozen at his belt. “Crisis,” Mickey reminded him.

Ian thawed, thoughts of Evans’ intrusion dissolving as he worked quickly to rid Mickey of his belt and pants, shoving them down far enough to pump his rapidly stiffening erection. He loved Mickey’s cock, loved how thick and gorgeous it was, like the rest of him. It was a shame that it was constantly being overshadowed by his spectacular ass; it deserved more attention, he regretted that he hadn't given it enough.

He swirled his tongue in a lazy circle over the plump head before he slipped him in, too wound-up to tease; too eager to rid their bodies of the memory imprinted by sad, heart wrenching sex. A hand slid to the mound of Mickey’s ass, holding him still with a great handful of flawless flesh as his mouth slid down his length. Mickey urged him on with a groan and fingers that coiled in his hair, drawing him closer, demanding he take him all. Ian relaxed his throat around him, swallowed him, let his girth fill him to the brim before he pulled off and sucked him back down again. And again. 

He could feel the thrum of Mickey’s blood pumping in hot, insistent twitches against his tongue, could taste the salty reward of his precum in the back of his throat. It compelled him to bob faster and bring him deeper, to grope for his hole and tease at the tight ring of skin. It wasn’t long before Mickey’s breath was coming in ragged gasps and his fingers were almost painful in Ian’s hair. Ian’s grip on his ass couldn’t contain him, he thrust into his mouth, determined flexes of his hips, chasing the relief that Ian had no intention of giving him. Not yet. Ian gazed up and caught Mickey leering down at him with teeth bitten lips and blown out eyes, so obviously close to the edge that he abruptly backed off his dick. He relished the savage sound that Mickey emitted, a low growl that Ian surged up and caught with his lips.

Mickey kissed him like he was his lifeline; hard and insistent, hunting for deliverance. Ian ravaged his mouth in turn, giving Mickey no mercy against his teeth or the lash of his tongue. His fingers fumbled at Mickey’s buttons, pulled at his tie, opened his shirt in tortuous increments while they kissed themselves messy. Mickey’s hands were at Ian’s belt, more deft than his own, quickly unbuckling him and pulling at his zipper as Ian continued to fumble. Mickey knocked his hands away, tore his tie off in a fluid motion and worked at the remaining buttons.

“Yeah, that’s right, take that shit off,” Ian husked. His lips slid to the tender underside of Mickey’s chin, teeth grazing his skin, loving the pound of his pulse, sinking in when they found a particularly delectable spot. He smoothed his palms back over Mickey’s bare ass and pressed him closer.

Mickey shrugged out of his shirt and snatched at Ian’s, the redhead too distracted by Mickey’s… everything… to be of much use. “A little help,” Mickey begged and Ian dutifully lifted his arms so his shirt could be ripped over his head. The brunet was on a mission to rid them of the rest of their clothes, pushing Ian’s pants and underwear down his narrow hips with force, freeing his dick, clasping it a moment later.

Ian gave a slow, thundering moan and braced his hands against the wall above Mickey’s shoulders to steady himself. He met the brunet’s dark eyes, breathed in the air he exhaled. “Bed,” he ordered on a heated, desperate whisper and Mickey nodded. He gave Ian’s cock a few more languid strokes and pushed him away by the hips, making room for them to quickly discard their bottoms.

They tumbled onto the mattress, a jumble of limbs, groping hands and searching mouths. Ian rolled onto Mickey, pinning him to the bed with his weight. He'd missed this, God how he'd missed this. If the sun were to burn out, if the whole world were to be plunged into endless darkness, he was sure he’d always know Mickey’s body under his, every inch of him oh so familiar to his senses.

He kissed and licked a path from Mickey’s mouth, down his chest, paused to lap at his nipples and abs, smoothed a palm against every bit of silky skin and ridged muscle he encountered. Mickey opened his legs for him, wide and wanting, fully on board with Ian’s trajectory. Ian tongued at the base of his cock, briefly but dotingly, before being urged downward by an impatient hand on the top of his head. He grinned up at Mickey; chuckled at the smirk and more insistent push he received in response, and dove to his target.

He played his tongue around the edges of Mickey’s hole, pressed at the center, kissed and sucked until it was puckered and spasming under his mouth, so sensitive and responsive. Ian salivated at the taste, the feel, the noises Mickey made. He spat onto him, tested the pad of a finger and groaned when Mickey’s muscles gave way to it. His tongue licked its way in beside it, worked with it to open him up, to make room for what he really wanted to give him. He added more spit and another finger, curling his digits up to Mickey’s prostate and massaging it with a steady pressure that made Mickey writhe. The man was born to be a bottom, Ian decided. 

His. Fucking. Bottom.

Arousal surged through him at that thought and he ripped his mouth away, removed his fingers, rose to his knees. Mickey lay spread out before him, a puddle of pleasure slackened limbs, ready for his taking and _fuck_ if it wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever seen in his life. Overcome with need, he hastily spit into his palm and spread it over his length. Mickey, realizing he was about to get ravaged without lube, spat into his own hand and reached down to add his contribution to the end of Ian’s dick. What a fucking trooper.

Ian lined up and forced himself to breathe, to slow the fuck down and ease his way in. “This okay?” he marshalled enough neurons to pant as he inched past Mickey’s rim.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Mickey grunted.

Ian watched his eyes for signs of pain, trying so hard to be tender, fighting so hard against the need to possess him, to claim him, once and for all; _he’s mine_ battling in his mind with _slow, breathe_. He crept his way in, bottomed out on a gush of satisfied air and bent over Mickey to steal kisses from his pillowy lips. Their fingers sank into each other’s hair and their tongues slid together; a soft, sizzling meeting of mouths that spurred Ian to gently move his hips. Mickey devoured the throaty moan that escaped him, dug his fingers into his scalp with his own pleasure; because holy fuck did it feel good. The lack of lube made everything tighter, more intense, even more incredible than before. “Oh, Jesus,” Ian hissed on a shaky breath, “that’s fucking… Fuck…”

“Uh huh,” Mickey agreed, easily making sense of the ramblings Ian made against his lips. He hooked a leg around Ian, his warm, smooth thigh drawing him unbearably deeper.

Ian rocked into him, little by little, getting them both used to the sensation, exercising unparalleled fucking restraint as far as he was concerned; a minute passed, maybe two, it felt like a million. Ian rested his forehead against Mickey’s mouth for a moment, felt a kiss laid there, then moved to the hollow of his throat, exhaling hot breaths into his neck. “It’s not hurting?” he rasped, cagily seeking permission to ramp it up before he burst.

Mickey’s skin hummed with amusement against him, he knew him too well. He freed Ian from his agony by uttering the four words the redhead longed for, “Give it to me.”

Ian made a primal noise of relief, brutish in its timber, and continued his careful thrusts as he nipped and sucked at Mickey until it hurt. He raised his head to sink their lips back together and quickened his pace, a steady but increasingly demanding rhythm that hammered sounds from the brunet that set him further ablaze, turned his deep, even strokes feral. Mickey clung to him, blissfully impaled on his dick, his heavy breaths coming in low, sultry groans against Ian’s mouth, steering the redhead ever closer to the edge of madness, stripping him of his civility, reducing him to the mammal he was. 

Ian bit at Mickey’s lips, huffed into his neck like a beast, gnawed at his flesh and bucked. He rose to his knees and pinned Mickey’s legs; bent them towards his chest with harsh fingers dimpling the backs of his thighs, spreading him wider, testing that infielder flexibility the second baseman bragged about. He filled him faster and harder, pushing both their limits. And Mickey took him, all of him, every plunge, every inch, clenched around him and milking his dick with broken noises of pleasure falling from his lips.

Ian got lost in the vision laid before him for a long moment, riveted by the sight of what he was doing to the brunet. Mickey fucking Milkovich, carried away and flushed, sent to heaven on his dick. He felt a smug sense of pride at that, at the fact that he was the only man that would get to do this; the only man Mickey wanted. Ian released a leg to run his hand up Mickey’s chest, stopped to lay it flat over his heart, propelled his hips in time with the swift beat he found there. Mickey clamped his hand over his and gazed up. Even through the throbbing din of his arousal Ian was pierced by the raw emotion he saw.

He slowed, dropped Mickey’s other leg to lean in and press a starved kiss to his lips. Mickey held him firmly so he wouldn’t lift away, swept his teeth across his jaw and neck, leaving tingles in his wake that prompted Ian to moan, “Fuck, Mickey,” before the brunet returned to probe at his mouth with his tongue. Their lips peeled apart and their eyes met for a few intense heartbeats as Ian continued to plunge into him.

He sat up, grabbed Mickey’s hips and eased his way back into his previous rhythm. Mickey kept his legs bent and wide for him, resumed his fucked out appearance with his throat bared and his eyes hooded, his hands on Ian’s thighs. He was so goddamned beautiful and Ian grew intolerably turned on by it all; the friction, the press of their damp skin, the heavy, musky scent of their sex. Mickey must have felt it too, his hand hurried to his dick and he stroked it fiercely to combat the building tension. 

For the sake of his sanity, Ian couldn’t look at him long, not if he had any hope of victory in the sweet struggle against his climax. He swatted Mickey’s hand off his cock and whispered, “Not yet.” No one was coming until he was done and he was nowhere near done. Mickey was finally, unquestionably his but he had no idea when he’d get him in a bed again; he was going to drag this out if it killed him.

His focus fell to where they joined, eyes rapt on Mickey’s hole where it hugged the base of his cock, gripping him like a fist. That didn’t fucking help. At all. He sucked in a deep breath and fought the urge to tighten his grip on Mickey’s hips and pound him until they both came. Just the thought of it made his release abruptly surge up and threaten to smother him. He paused, buried to the hilt, huffing growls and throbbing. His eyes pinched shut, mind over matter, and he felt Mickey claw at him, fingernails biting into his legs, urging him to fuck him harder. When Ian didn’t move, Mickey squirmed under him and cursed.

“Hold on,” Ian panted. Mickey arched into him, yanked at him, tried to fuck himself onto his dick until Ian slipped a hand under his ass to still him. “Fuck off,” he laughed breathily, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up and he surged to wrap his arms around Ian’s neck and tug him down. His thighs flexed and he flipped them, crashing Ian onto his back in a breathless heap with his arms pinned. His eyes were playful but more than anything, wicked. “You wanna make me beg for it, is that it?” he hummed. “‘Cause I’m yours?” He slid up Ian’s cock and back down with an impossibly sexy smirk painted on his lips. “Well, you’re mine too, yeah? So how ‘bout I just fuckin' take it?”

Ian gaped up at him, his lungs not even bothering to fight for the air they needed. A rattle sounded in the depths of his throat, a death rattle he presumed, suddenly convinced beyond any doubt that it was possible to be so turned on you die.

Mickey moved purposefully above him, clenched around him, watching him with those indomitable eyes, almost certainly trying to draw the cum directly out of his balls. When Mickey released his arms, Ian’s hands flew to his ass in a last ditch effort to subdue him but they worked against his will, encouraged him instead, helped him to climb his dick and crash back down. He couldn’t help it; his body wanted it so fucking bad, needed it as much as the air he’d forgotten how to breathe. He gasped into Mickey’s mouth when they kissed, so close to coming, just a few plunges away, when Mickey stopped. Ian opened his eyes, tried to drive himself into Mickey’s heat and all but snarled at the man when he wouldn’t surrender to his cock.

“Me first,” Mickey insisted and Ian spun them so fast the bed shook. He thrust into him, a man possessed, stoking the fire that was burning him alive. He slipped his hand between them, took Mickey’s dick in his palm and matched the pace of his hips, stroke for frantic stroke with Mickey moaning obscenities beneath him. Mickey caught his hair, pulled him down to his lips, forced his tongue between his lips even as they both groaned around it.

The pressure in Ian’s belly was engulfing him, about to explode, he couldn’t do it anymore. He wrenched his mouth away. “You better come right the fuck now,” he hissed at Mickey and the brunet grinned. Ian threw his head back, gritted his teeth, felt his release strike him like a blow, swallowing him whole in a burst of pleasure that propelled a choked cry from between his lips. He erupted inside Mickey, dimly aware of the brunet tensing and shuddering around him, of his dick contracting in his hand and of his fingernails gouging his ass. Mickey’s teeth were against his skin, his growl of satisfaction a low rumble against Ian’s throat. Thank _fuck_.

On a whim, the beast in him yet to be tamed, Ian pulled out to slink down Mickey’s body and lap at the cum pooling at his hole, on his stomach and groin. His tongue sought every drop, relished the tang, licked him clean, and only when he was spotless did he crawl back up to sink his face into Mickey’s heady scent, his athlete’s body finally spent and panting harshly.

There was a moment of silence, the only sound Ian’s harried puffs of air, before Mickey began to laugh. “Damn, Gallagher,” he teased, evidently caught off guard by the gusto of the redhead’s grand finale.

Ian lifted his head and peered down at him. Mickey still wore the afterglow of orgasm, his cheeks flush, lips red, eyes hazy with desire fulfilled. “You’re so fucking hot,” Ian praised between breathless chuckles, scooting his arms under Mickey’s shoulders. “That was so fucking hot.”

“Mmhmm,” Mickey agreed with sparkling eyes and Ian was so grateful for sex that meant hello instead of goodbye, that ended in laughter instead of tears. 

He leaned in to kiss him but Mickey dodged his lips. “Are you serious? You kissed me after I had my tongue in your ass,” Ian complained. He tried again, chasing Mickey’s lips when the brunet turned his head, planting a fleeting kiss on the side of his motionless lips.

“Nuh-uh,” he hummed.

“You’ve got no problem taking my cum down your throat,” Ian argued.

“That’s different. There’s a lot goin’ on in your mouth right now.”

“I kissed you after you threw up!”

“Yeah, ok, eat some cotton candy and I’ll kiss you.”

“You’re kissing me,” Ian decreed. He held the sides of Mickey’s head, immobilizing him as the brunet tried not to laugh. Ian pressed their mouths together and attempted to pry Mickey’s lips apart with his tongue.

“I’m not,” Mickey protested without surrendering any ground, but he wasn’t putting up enough of a fight for Ian to believe him.

“You are,” Ian mumbled. They chuckled when Mickey’s lips finally gave way and Ian forced a kiss on him. Mickey kissed him back, a sudden change of heart.

“Not so bad, right?” 

Apparently not because Mickey yanked him back down and his fingers glided into Ian’s hair, tangling with the sweaty tresses as their lips moved slowly against each other. Satisfied, Ian relinquished Mickey’s mouth to crawl down his chest, buried his ear into the serenity of his heartbeat, basked in the caress of gentle fingertips running through his hair, and in a matter of seconds, fell wholly and irrevocably in love with him all over again; for the umpteenth time that day. 

He didn’t care how hard this would be, didn’t care what it took to love Mickey, to be loved by him, he’d spend half a lifetime missing him, another half fighting for him, just for these moments in between.

***

Mickey stirred awake the morning after game day with Ian on his mind and Ian’s dick sliding up the crack of his ass. He rasped a tired chuckle and glanced over his shoulder only to have his lip caught between the redhead’s teeth. “The fuck?” he mumbled.

“You’re awake?” Ian whispered.

“I am now.”

“How’s your ass?” 

“Uh, it’s okay.” He hadn’t exactly gotten around to doing a self-diagnostic. “I think.”

Ian left wet kisses on the nape of his neck and the back of his shoulder as he continued to polish his cock between Mickey’s cheeks. “You good to go another round?”

“You guys seem oddly determined to fuck in front of me,” Evans remarked from the pull-out across the room.

Mickey lurched up to a sitting position and scowled at his friend; his friend who sure as fuck hadn’t been there when they’d fallen asleep. “You slept here?” he asked dumbly, because clearly he had since he was sprawled out naked on his unmade bed.

“Where’d you think I was going to sleep?”

“I dunno, with fuckin’ Joudrey or Torez?” Evans had two teammates at the All-Star game after all.

“Their girlfriends are still here.”

“Well, my b-.” Mickey stopped himself and tried to recover with, “Ian’s here, now,” despite knowing it was too fucking late. He crumpled back into the bed as Evans hooted. When he dared to steal a glance at Ian he found the redhead practically radiating sunbeams. Mickey pushed his face into the pillows and tried to pretend neither of them were there.

Ian nuzzled his neck, urging him to turn around. “What’d you say?” he teased.

“Evans is naked again,” Mickey exposed his face just long enough to inform him. ”And he’s got your doll.”

Ian’s eyes snapped wide open. He leapt from the covers in a superhero-esque move, wrapping a blanket around his bottom half as he went. “How’d you get Mockey?!” he hollered as he charged toward the PawSox player.

Evans curled around the toy to keep Ian from grabbing it. “He was laying on top of your bag. He looked lonely.”

“Give him to me.”

“We’re cuddling.”

Satisfied that he’d successfully distracted them, Mickey tuned them out. 

Evans must have returned to their room well after two in the morning, he realized; it had been at least then before he and Ian had finally, reluctantly, surrendered to sleep. His friend had been trying to stay out of their hair, Mickey concluded, and he would have to thank him for it later, for every precious minute he’d had alone with Ian, for helping him to get him there in the first place. He owed the man more than he could ever hope to repay. 

He and Ian had talked most of the evening; recounting their days apart, trying to envision their days ahead, using every word, every touch to pick each other up piece by piece. Their present, their future, thinking about it, felt a lot more like coming up for air than it used to, than it did the last time they’d tried, when it’d felt a lot like drowning. 

Ian had convinced Mickey to make use of the luxury bathroom that his fancy hotel room afforded them, to soak his baseball worn muscles in some excessively bubbled water while Ian massaged away his complaints. He’d insisted on sitting behind him, had used his strong hands to search out knots as he’d asked Mickey to describe every experience he’d had during the All-Star game; every at bat, every decision he’d made on the bases, what it had felt like to steal home, to get his double, to have the crowd chant his name. Mickey had indulged him, had maybe enjoyed reliving it a little, had also taken the opportunity to gripe about whatever the fuck he and Evans had been up to in the stands. But the truth, the honest to God truth that he didn’t lay bare, was this: that after every at bat, every base he’d stolen, every hit he’d gotten, the only thing he’d been thinking about was Ian. He didn’t know if it would always be that way, it probably wouldn’t, but on that day, in that place, Ian had made that game matter to him in a way that it wouldn’t have without him. 

Ian had promptly undone all of his muscle loosening efforts by bending Mickey over the edge of the bathtub before the water had even turned tepid; a predictable consequence of Mickey retelling his brazen run around the bases. There was lube, that time, that they’d gathered from Ian’s car; a wreck that was somehow worse than Ian’s description, that Mickey had laughed long and hard at while they’d removed his things. They decided that it should stay right where it was until the hotel eventually had it towed away. 

They’d huddled between the sheets after that, where they’d stayed until Evans’ untimely interruption, never not touching, never taking a moment for granted.

“And put some goddamned pants on,” Ian demanded of Evans as he jumped back onto the bed, victorious. He lay beside Mickey and set Mockey between then. “He smells weird now,” he grumbled.

“He always smelt weird.” Like slightly stale popcorn and dodgy chemicals.

Ian pecked Mickey’s nose. “He’s gonna hang out in your bag for the day.”

He rolled away and padded to Mickey’s gear. A strangled yelp rippled out of him when he bent over the bag, a bizarre hybrid noise that was mostly lust and part surprise. “This was here the whole time?” he marvelled. He returned to the bed with Mickey’s jockstrap clutched lovingly in his hands. “You’ve got five minutes to be somewhere else,” he warned Evans and Mickey snorted. He dove back under the covers, mounted Mickey, pulled a sheet over their heads like a billowy white tent, and plunged to his boyfriend’s smiling lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a video of Kevin Pillar stealing bases like Mickey did at the All-Star game. ;)  
> <https://youtu.be/zbS92K6uolU>


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start by saying I love you all and have missed you so much. This is not the chapter I wanted to have ready for you but writing hasn't come easily these past months, for various reasons, and I wanted to post a little something before Christmas to remind you all that I'm still working on this. It's 100% fluff and barely moves the story along, but, hey, we can let them relax for a few thousand words before we put them through any more. This was just the beginning of what was going to be a very long chapter and I have lots more written so let's keep our fingers crossed I can get some time over the holidays to finish it. :)

Mickey had been allowing himself to be contorted into whatever bottom-up position struck Ian’s fancy for the better part of an hour. Unlike the intense fuck he’d had every reason to expect, the redhead was taking his time, wringing every ounce of pleasure out of the experience that he could, dropping enthusiastic kisses onto Mickey’s shoulders or hips before unpretzeling him out of one limb burning configuration and twisting him into another. Mickey indulged him like he would no other, knowing full well he’d be sore for the rest of that day and probably the next, but enjoying the thorough fucking nonetheless.

His latest pose found him curled over his own bent knees, as if he’d been skewered mid-somersault by Ian’s cock, taking the redhead’s measured thrusts while he whispered sweet nothings to his jockstrap clad ass.

“God, look at you,” Ian purred, “you’re so fucking perfect.” With each plunge he withdrew for a moment to treat himself to a glimpse of Mickey’s gaping, empty hole before sinking back in, deep enough for his balls to slap off the curve of Mickey’s cheeks every time. He proceeded to make satisfied noises that Mickey would have never guessed were human if he hadn’t known where they were coming from. “I could do this forever,” Ian claimed amidst guttural groans, his fingers alternating between digging into Mickey’s flesh and toying with the band of his jockstrap.

Mickey didn’t doubt him, and as impressed as he was by Ian’s stamina, Evans had only promised them an hour before he’d made his exasperatingly unhurried exit to go get breakfast. It was time to ramp things up if they were going to blow their loads before his return. Mickey had an idea, something that was sure to hurl Ian over the edge. He craned his neck and looked back at him, “I got my uniform here too.”

Ian paused mid-thrust, his wide eyes trained on Mickey’s. “You do?” he choked out.

“Had to bring all my gear with me.”

Ian pulled out quickly and urged him up. “Get it,” he ordered. He sprawled on the mattress, stroking his unflagging erection while he watched Mickey cross the room to root through his bag. Mickey extracted the jersey from his duffel and tugged it on as he sauntered back to the bed with a brash smile playing on his lips. He straddled Ian’s waist and fastened the buttons with exaggerated care, waiting for the attack he knew was imminent. He got three done before Ian fisted the fabric near his neck and hauled him down to meet his mouth, kissing him hard through Mickey’s chuckle.

Ian slid his hands to Mickey’s ass, spread his cheeks and lined up so he could thrust up and back into him. “I’m never gonna be able to see you in this again without getting hard,” he growled.

“How’s that different than usual?” Mickey hummed. He shifted his lips to Ian’s throat as the redhead rocked into him, laying down biting kisses in all the spots that made his man squirm. Ian was still fucking him like they had all the time in the world, but rather than remind him they didn’t, Mickey pushed back into him.

Ian launched a hand into Mickey’s hair, letting him take over and moaning low in his ear, “You’re so fucking good at that.” 

Mickey was well aware. He turned his mouth hot and wet against Ian’s skin, clenched his ass tight around his throbbing dick as he pulsed up and down, promptly drawing frantic curses on heavy breaths out of Ian’s throat, “Fuck, stop, you gotta stop,” he begged.

“Come,” Mickey rasped. It felt good, too good to stop; he wanted to ride it out.

“Not like this,” Ian insisted. “I want to see you. Turn around.”

Mickey raised his head, found Ian’s distressed, but hopeful expression and stilled. He planted a quick kiss onto his lips and sat up, lifting away with a smile and shake of his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d reserve cowboyed for anyone, let alone done it clad in a jersey and jockstrap. He really must love the fucker.

“Oh, yeah,” Ian encouraged when Mickey faced away and sank back down onto his waiting cock, “that’s it.” He bunched up the bottom of the Bisons’ jersey with one hand to ensure an unobstructed view of Mickey’s ass and slipped his other under the elastic of his jockstrap, roughly squeezing the cheek that filled his palm. 

Mickey began to move, catching his own breath when Ian’s dick slid against his sensitive insides. He liked it, liked the angle, liked how hard and deep Ian felt, liked how the redhead swore and moaned behind him. 

“Holy fuck, Mickey,” Ian panted, “Jesus fucking fuck that’s the hottest fucking... fuck.”

Listening to Ian string together obscenities, Mickey tried to picture what the redhead saw; his dick disappearing inside of him, his ass framed by his jockstrap, ‘Milkovich’ scrawled in bold red across his back. It turned him on, thinking about how much it turned Ian on, and he freed his dick from the front of his jockstrap to work it in his hand. The bed creaked as he bounced with more vigor.

He could hear Ian’s breathing grow labored again as his own did, could observe the redhead’s toes curling and feel how merciless his fingers had become on his skin. His next few plunges had Ian gasping and his hips quivering as he tried to drive himself deeper and harder into Mickey’s depths. He could sense Ian’s dick shudder when he started to come and his hand flew wildly over his own length, trying to come with him. Ian filled him before he got there and he stopped when he heard Ian’s grunts stutter. 

“C’mere,” Ian begged, his hands imploring him off. He directed Mickey from his perch atop him down onto his back and clambered between his legs. His lips quirked when he saw the mess he’d made of Mickey’s hole and he pushed two fingers inside, enveloping Mickey’s dick with his mouth a second later, pumping him furiously as he bobbed. 

Mickey had already been close; between Ian’s skilled fingers and capable tongue, it didn’t take much to finish him off. He groaned when his orgasm crashed through him and emptied deep down Ian’s open throat. Finally sated, he heaved a long, contented sigh and let his head fall back into the pillows. 

Ian tucked Mickey’s dick back into his jockstrap and climbed up beside him, licking his coated fingers clean and grinning. Mickey intertwined his fingers with Ian’s and lifted them to his mouth to press a brisk kiss onto the back of the redhead’s hand. Ian held tight when he moved to get up.

“Where you going?”

“Evans is gonna be back any second.”

“He said he’d be back in an hour.”

“It’s been an hour, man, and he ain’t gonna knock. If he finds me in this getup I’ll have to kill him.”

“Shit,” Ian swore. He crashed back into the bed and covered his head with Mickey’s vacated pillow. “I can’t decide if I like Evans or if I wanna punch him,” he grumbled into the fabric.

Mickey snorted. “It’s both.” 

“I’d like him better if he kept his clothes on.”

“You know I shower with a couple dozen naked men every day, right? So do you.”

“Don’t remind me,” Ian groaned. He pulled the pillow tighter over his face.

Mickey barely had time to exchange his jockstrap for underwear before the devil they spoke of charged through the hotel room door. Ian hastily dragged their messy sheets over his groin.

Evans made a show of covering his eyes. “Everyone decent?”

“No,” Mickey replied dryly but Evans dropped his hand anyway.

“Why are you wearing your jers-,” he began then cut himself off and grinned. “Never mind, I get it.” He wiggled his brows at Ian. 

Mickey tried to think of a decent place to hide Evans’ body and sighed when he couldn’t. He undid the few buttons he’d managed to fasten in the heat of things and shrugged out of his jersey as Evans strolled across the floor to his duffel. “I’m just gonna grab my stuff and then I’ll be out of your hair,” he assured them. “I’m getting a lift to Toledo with Joudrey.” 

“We gotta be outta here in half an hour anyway.”

“Not until one. I stopped at the front desk and got you a late checkout.”

“You did?” Mickey looked at Ian and gestured to his friend. “See, that’s the kinda shit that keeps him from getting his snot box rocked.”

Evans snickered and flipped something from his bag into Mickey’s quick hands. “Shit like that too.” 

Mickey examined the plaque he held. The same one he’d thrown in the garbage the day of the All-Star Challenge. 

Evans zipped up his bag, put the strap over his shoulder and stood in front of him. “I didn’t save the bat. Couldn’t hide it in my jacket and didn’t really feel like having my head bashed in with it.” 

Mickey lifted his eyes to his friend. He’d never felt like bashing his head in less. He threw his arm around him and thumped his back. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Anytime,” Evans promised, returning the rare embrace. He stood to his full height afterward and exhaled a loud breath. “Well, gotta go. Thanks for inviting me,” he directed at Mickey, who’d done no such thing. He beamed at Mickey’s derisive expression, waved a farewell at Ian and headed toward the door with the second baseman in tow. “Probably about time you guys got back on each other anyway,” he predicted, reaching for the knob. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey grunted.

“Say bye to Mockey for me,” he called to Ian from the doorway. “We bonded,” he explained to Mickey.

“Alright, go,” Mickey insisted, thrusting him into the hall.

Evans leaned back into the room with sparkling eyes to offer Mickey a final bit of advice, “Be careful not to get jizz on your gear; it’s all fun and games until someone has a cum stain they’ve got to explain to their teammates.”

Mickey pursed his lips and let the heavy door fall closed. He turned back to Ian with Evans’ laughter fading down the hall. “We could have dumped him in your car and pushed it in the river.” 

“Missed opportunity,” Ian lamented. 

Mickey eyed him appreciatively on his way back to bed. Tangled in the sheets the way he was, naked and happy, an arm behind his head and another on his chest, he made Mickey want to pre-emptively forgive Evans for every stupid jersey joke he would undoubtedly make. His friend had secured them extra time together. Without it, Mickey would be packing up instead of climbing up Ian’s body. 

He tossed his plaque on the bed as he straddled him but Ian stretched for the award and slid it across the sheets. He studied it with a proud smile that he turned on Mickey. “Damn,” he swore, sitting up and cupping either side of Mickey’s face, “my boyfriend’s incredible.”

“Is he?” Mickey hummed. 

“Uh huh,” Ian affirmed. He stole a soft kiss from Mickey’s lips and tucked his head into his neck to nip at his throat. “He’s amazing. Best second baseman ever,” he mumbled. Mickey snorted and Ian looked up at him sharply. “You arguing?”

“Nope,” Mickey appeased swiftly. He chuckled at Ian’s dramatically narrowed eyes and pulled him back in for a pacifying kiss.

Mollified, Ian resumed his praise. “He’s the best,” he reiterated from beneath his chin. “And he’s so sweet and sexy too,” he crooned, punctuating his words with doting presses of his lips, “he makes me so hard and happy.” He kissed a path to Mickey’s mouth and smiled. “Tell me about _your_ boyfriend,” he requested in a playful lilt then dipped back into Mickey’s neck. 

“Huge dork, plays with dolls,” Mickey snarked. Ian laughed at the same time he yanked Mickey’s hair, exposing his throat and sinking his teeth into his flesh in warning. “Likes to bite!” Mickey exclaimed. He pushed at Ian’s shoulders until the redhead’s teeth disengaged.

“Say something nice,” Ian advised, his wide open expression seeping innocent charm.

Mickey grinned and settled his fingers deep into Ian’s messy bedhead. “A hot dork,” he clarified.

“Mmm,” Ian purred. “I’ll take it. Tell me more.”

Mickey drew him closer until their noses grazed. “Well,” he began on a flirty whisper, “he makes me laugh,” and dropped his voice to finish on an exaggerated husk, “then he makes me moan.” 

Ian smirked on cue. “Your boyfriend sounds awesome.”

“He is,” Mickey agreed. He teased at Ian’s lips until the redhead took the bait and brought their mouths together. Ian’s warm hands travelled up and down Mickey’s back as they tasted, bit and sucked at each other in a leisurely kiss. When they’d had their fill, Ian sighed and dragged his lips away. Mickey’s eyes flitted over his face, perceiving his good humour melting away. He knew what was wrong without Ian having to say a thing. “Try not to think about it,” he counselled softly.

“I’m trying not to,” Ian closed his eyes and muttered. He swallowed and returned his gaze to Mickey. “I’m just gonna miss this.” He sank his face into Mickey’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around him tighter. 

Mickey ran comforting fingers through his hair. “Better than not bein’ together at all, right?”

Ian bobbed his head in a feeble nod and bound himself around Mickey even more securely. “Right,” he concurred quietly. 

They’d had one night, one perfect, soul nurturing night, and it was coming to an end. Reality was merciless and ever present, lying in wait just outside their hotel room door, ready to force them back into hiding, its heavy shadow primed to tint even their stolen moments grey. Pretending, sneaking, subsisting off scraps, it wasn’t ideal but it was all they had. Mickey pressed his cheek into Ian’s hair and searched for words that might bolster his boyfriend’s spirit. “Season’s over in a month and a half,” he reminded him. 

Ian lifted his head and regarded him soberly. “Where do you stay in the off season?” 

“I stayed in Buffalo last year,” Mickey replied. He caught the hint of disappointment that Ian tried to disguise with a weak smile. “Hey, if you need to be in Chicago then I’ll be in Chicago,” he assured him.

“Would you hate it? A lot of shitty memories there.”

Mickey shrugged. “We’ll make good ones.” He matched Ian’s smile as it grew a little more sincere. “C’mon,” he insisted, “this is fuckin’ depressing.” He gave him a quick kiss, buoyed himself up and pulled Ian off the bed. “Shower time,” he told him. “Soapin’ up my ass should cheer you up.” He planted Ian’s hand on his shoulder and marched them to the tile and glass walled shower, another perk of Mickey’s All-Star accommodations.

Ian padded along behind him, his smile having completed its metamorphosis into a genuine one. Ever diligent when it came to Mickey’s ass, he set to his task as soon as they were under the stream. He dusted kisses on Mickey’s shoulders and back while he lathered him up, infusing the air with the fresh, floral aroma of fancy hotel soap. When Ian spun him towards the spray for a rinse, Mickey seized the opportunity to squeeze a generous squirt of shampoo into Ian’s hair and mould the strands to his liking. Ian surrendered to the quiet attention the same way Mickey had, happy to let him play, just appreciative of their proximity.

“What?” Mickey asked when he noticed Ian’s sentimental eyes roaming over his features.

“I’m just wondering how I got here,” Ian whispered in reply.

Mickey dropped his hands to Ian’s neck. “You drove a janky car you bought off Craigslist.”

“No,” Ian laughed, “I mean, here, in this shower, with you. Why me, out of all the men that’d give anything to be in my place?”

“I could ask you the same question. Why me and not some college clone with a blow-dry haircut?”

“Please,” Ian huffed. “They’re all so fucking boring; the way they talk, the way they walk, the way they _smell_ , the way they... everything,” he sighed. “It was over for me the minute I met you. If you’d decided we were done I’d have joined the nearest monastery.”

Mickey snorted and lifted an eyebrow high. “Isn’t there a vow of silence, too?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “A priest then.”

“Priests can’t bang?”

“I dunno, can they?” They pulled similar faces that made it plain neither of them knew fuck all about religion. “Anyway, you know what I’m saying.”

“That I’m it for you,” Mickey surmised. “You’re it for me, too.” 

Ian drew a long, grateful breath. “I’m so lucky.”

“We’re both lucky,” Mickey corrected. “Of all the roommates on all the teams in all the leagues, we end up with each other and we’re the same. Like… like whatever the fuck we’re made of, it’s the same.”

“Sounds a little like fate.” 

Mickey cocked his head. “And why would fate go to all that trouble for us?”

“Maybe I loved you in another life,” Ian proposed earnestly, “and I swore I’d find you in the next.” 

Mickey was silent for a few seconds, holding Ian’s gaze like he was reflecting on the enormity of the love they shared, and then he blinked. “That’s some next level stalking.”

Ian exhaled a chuckle on a rush of flower scented air. “It’s not stalking if you like it.”

“I like it in this lifetime. In the last one I probably had a restraining order.”

“You’re ruining our moment, Mickey,” Ian reprimanded, albeit ineffectually given that he couldn’t stop smiling.

“Your hair is ruining our moment.” Mickey tilted Ian’s head towards the shower wall until he could catch his own reflection in the glass. He scowled when he realized he’d attempted a heartfelt conversation while sporting a substantial mohawk. “A dork in every lifetime,” Mickey teased.

Ian turned his face back to Mickey’s. “Fine, fuck this sappy shit,” he concluded, “I’m just gonna stick my tongue back down your throat.” He grasped either side of Mickey’s head and lunged at his mouth tongue-first. Mickey spluttered and laughed against the surprise assault and Ian was no better, laughing too hard to turn it into anything resembling a kiss. They ducked under the shower stream in their struggle and shampoo sluiced out of Ian’s hair into his eyes. Mickey gained the upper hand when Ian recoiled, securing him in a headlock and forcing him back under the water. 

“You gonna stop?” Mickey panted.

Ian, feeble with laughter, hung limp like he might but sprung from under Mickey’s arm just when the brunet thought he’d forfeited, using his height and weight advantage to restrain the shorter man against the glass by his forearms. “You gonna stop?” he countered. 

Mickey was all arched eyebrows and grinning, teeth bitten lips but he didn’t resist; Ian’s slick body and glistening skin hard-pressed against his own had quickly dispelled any fight he had left. Ian slid his grip up Mickey’s forearms to his hands as he sensed the spirit of their game change. He laced their fingers and declined his chin to sweep his mouth across Mickey’s. “Gonna stop?” he repeated, quieter.

Mickey gave the slightest nod and Ian’s lips were on his, moving ever so gently in an unexpectedly tender kiss. When Ian unthreaded his fingers from Mickey’s and let his hands drop into his hair, a warm tide of memory flooded Mickey’s core. He was on a ballfield, their ballfield, where all of this had begun, and Ian had him caged against the outfield wall. They were kissing in the dark with their thundering hearts on their sleeves. Then Ian’s mouth was on his neck and Mickey was staring across the expanse of moonlit grass that, until then, had been all he’d ever wanted. He’d picked the wrong fight that night, the one that would keep them apart, and perhaps, as Ian suspected, fate had scoffed at his choice. 

“Ian,” Mickey said softly, back then and now, but unlike that night, Ian raised his head right away. His lips lingered near Mickey’s, almost touching, as he waited for him to continue. “I don’t know if I buy this fate thing,” Mickey told him, “but I’ll choose you every fuckin’ time from here on out.” Because what was love if it wasn’t that? And if Ian was looking for reassurance this morning after too many days of Mickey having none to give, what better promise could he make?

Ian ran his fingertips over Mickey’s burgeoning beard and said nothing, but it was the kind of nothing that meant everything. Then his tongue was back in Mickey’s mouth and so far down his throat it was a wonder no one choked. Mickey answered with his own assault on Ian’s tonsils that lasted until they were forced to catch their breaths. Ian switched to mouthing water droplets off Mickey’s collar bone and extolling more praise. “I love this part of you,” he murmured, “and this part… and this part… and this part…”

“Are there parts you don’t love?” Mickey laughed.

Ian stopped long enough to mumble a definitive, “No,” then resumed his trek across Mickey’s upper chest. When he made it back to Mickey’s lips he kissed him and grinned. “I bet your ass looks amazing up against this glass.” He paused. “Actually, don’t move.” Mickey chuckled when Ian thrust his head into the spray to wash the final remnants of shampoo out of his hair then opened the shower door and stepped out. He stopped on the other side of the glass to where Mickey was splayed and towelled off as he assessed the brunet’s backside like he was a patron at a fine art gallery. “I was right,” he concluded, “it’s fucking fantastic.” 

“I gotta stop enabling you,” Mickey joked and pushed himself off the wall despite Ian’s discontented whine. He turned off the water, joined Ian on the other side of the shower door, wrapped a towel around his waist and moved toward the sink. “I’m gonna shave,” he informed him. “Wanna get breakfast after?” 

Ian’s head jerked up from the drying he’d been finishing. “What? No!” He stood behind Mickey at the vanity.

Mickey addressed Ian’s reflection in the mirror. “You don’t want breakfast?”

“I don’t want you to shave!” 

“Why?” 

“I like it!”

“It’s itchy as fuck,” Mickey complained. He scratched at his scruff as if to emphasize his point.

“Why’d you let it grow out then?”

“Couldn’t be bothered to shave.”

Ian’s troubled expression morphed into a smirk. He slunk close and cooed over Mickey’s shoulder, “Kinda like an ‘I miss Ian’ beard?”

“More like an ‘I got suspended’ beard.”

“Bullshit,” Ian scoffed. “That’s depression hair.” He nestled into Mickey’s neck and slid his hands to his hips.

“Maybe,” Mickey admitted as he tried to wriggle away from the redhead’s ticklish affections. Ian doubled down, burying his face further into Mickey’s neck and holding his hips tighter. Mickey found enough room to spin and hold Ian’s giggling head at bay; he pushed through Mickey’s hold to smack a kiss onto his mouth. 

“Okay, get rid of it, but promise you’ll grow it back someday?” 

Mickey smiled. “Sure.”

Ian plopped onto the edge of the tub to watch him assemble his shaving arsenal. “So,” he began, “we need to talk about where I’m gonna say I’ve been since yesterday. Someone will ask why I didn’t ride with the team.”

Mickey hefted his can of shaving cream and rolled it in his hand while he weighed their options. “Tell ‘em you went to the All-Star game,” he finally decided.

Ian visibly balked at his reply. “That’ll get back to the coach.”

“He can’t trade you for going to a game.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

Mickey scoffed, “I’d like to see him try.”

“You _looking_ for a fight?”

“No,” Mickey refuted, “but someone could have seen you. It’d be worse to get caught in a lie.” He splashed water onto his face and commenced lathering up his beard.

Ian considered Mickey’s unburdened disposition from beneath a furrowed brow, “Okay, that makes sense… but why aren’t you more worried about it?” 

“I dunno, man, we can’t walk on eggshells forever.” He was done cowering under Meacham’s threats. They’d hide, they’d do their best, but living in fear wasn’t the Mickey he’d been reminded he was. 

Ian hesitated while he reflected on Mickey’s nerve. “I’m gonna follow your lead,” he told him at last. “If you’re good, I’m good.”

“My lead?” Mickey grunted. He swiped his razor over the patch of hair beneath his right sideburn.

“Yeah, your lead,” Ian repeated. “I was ready to quit last week, remember?” 

Mickey huffed a laugh that conceded the redhead’s point and resumed grooming. Ian regarded him in silence for awhile then leaned forward, gently tugged Mickey’s towel from his hips and tossed it to the floor. Mickey raised a dark brow in his direction. “Junkie,” he snorted.

“Enthusiast,” Ian argued.

Mickey pointed at Ian’s toiletry bag where it sat alongside his. “Don’t you gotta shave too?” 

“I’d rather watch.” 

Mickey shook his head at the leering redhead in the mirror. He set his razor on the counter and sprayed a dollop of shaving cream into his hand. Ian looked up just as Mickey splattered the contents of his palm onto his face.

Ian blew foam from his nostrils, flicked more off his eyelids and turned his stunned stare on the smug brunet in front of him. “It’s on,” Ian warned him. 

Mickey kept eye contact with him as he slowly and deliberately reached back for his can, letting his methodical pace carry its own clear threat. He commenced dispensing ten full seconds worth of product into his hand while Ian shot for his bag to arm himself in turn. 

Ian barely acquired half a handful before he backed into the gap between the toilet and counter with his ammo held high. Rather than come for him, Mickey switched to filling his empty hand with foam as well. Ian, realizing how outmatched he’d be, scooted back for more only to have Mickey finally lunge. It was a direct hit; a reach-around that got Ian square in the face once again. Rendered blind, he flung froth in Mickey’s direction and grappled with his arms in a futile attempt to stop the second wave that came a moment later; most of which went directly into his open, laughing mouth. 

“That’s all you got?” Mickey goaded. 

He gave Ian enough time to dig it out of his eyes and spit into the sink but struck again when the unyielding redhead dove back for his canister. Mickey was faster, nabbing his own can off the counter and spraying a jet of white cream onto Ian’s chest and head as soon as he turned. Ian fended him off with one hand, swore when his can coughed and sputtered after letting out a measly spurt of foam, threw the whole container at Mickey and retreated to relative safety by leaping onto the toilet seat. “I give up,” he wheezed between laughs. Mickey eyed him doubtfully, shaving cream still locked and loaded and aimed at Ian’s naked groin. “Put the can down!” Ian begged, covering his junk.

Mickey mulled over Ian’s surrender, remembering the redhead's ruse in the shower. They’d already made a huge fucking mess though and he’d rather not run out of shaving cream on their road trip. He carefully placed his bottle on the countertop and showed his empty palms to Ian in a gesture of goodwill. Ian promptly leapt off the toilet and caught him in a zealous bear hug. “Fucker,” Mickey chuckled. 

Ian rubbed his head all over the side of Mickey’s. “What?” he hummed, “Just wanted a hug.” He pulled back to assess his handiwork and grinned at the results. 

Mickey glanced around them. “Who’s gonna clean this up?” 

Ian's grin grew even wider, if that were possible. “I’ll clean _you_ up.”

“Again? My ass is still clean.”

Ian scooped foam off Mickey’s ear and slapped it on his rear. “You were saying?” 

“You’ve got a problem.”

“Yeah,” Ian agreed, “my boyfriend’s too hot.” 

They ran their thumbs over each other’s sticky, upturned lips and came together for what proved to be a foul tasting kiss that made them both cringe. Mickey followed Ian back into the shower where, after the water had washed away the foam, Ian cackled at the lopsided mustache Mickey’s beard had become during his interrupted shave. Mickey hammed it up for him, curling his upper lip and winking like a 70s porn star. 

They couldn’t look at each other without smiling, couldn’t stop goofing around and leaning in for kisses; not while they finished their grooming and dressed or while they ordered and ate their late breakfast. They spent their last half hour joined at the lips, swapping silly quips as often as spit, with Mickey feeling like a fool for wanting to get over what they had. Because as much as he lived for stealing bases, he would have been content to stay locked up in that hotel room, on first base with Ian, for a thousand more lifetimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and thank you all for putting up with me and still being so supportive!! For anyone that I owe messages to, I promise I haven't abandoned Twitter entirely and I will get back to you. <3
> 
> Have a wonderful holiday!!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!! We're getting there. <3

Mickey blew smoke into the cloudless daytime sky and watched the batting practice cage take shape on the infield turf in front of him. Huntington Park was abuzz with activity, everywhere he looked there was yet another crew member working to transform the stadium from an All-Star venue back to its usual form. The commotion would have annoyed him if Mickey wasn’t still riding the high of his morning with Ian.

They’d parted ways at the hotel and taken separate transport, keeping up the façade of distance between them while they awaited the arrival of their teammates. Ian had offered up the field to Mickey for his pregame ritual and promised to hang back inside the clubhouse. They’d switch it up the next day when Ian was scheduled to pitch.

Mickey wasn’t aware that the team buses had rolled up until Coach Meacham approached from the dugout behind him. The Bisons’ patriarch joined him on the warning track, crossing his arms and relaxing against the railing in an apparent display of quiet camaraderie. Mickey continued to observe the on-field activities, a dignified attempt at ignoring both the coach and his galloping heart. He wasn’t fooled; the set of Meacham’s jaw belied the nature of his visit.

“Gallagher was here for the All-Star game?” Meacham asked after a stretch of prickly silence.

Mickey kept his tone as disinterested as possible. “I dunno, was he?” 

“Says he was.”

“Okay. Then he was. Why you askin’ me?”

Meacham pressed his lips into a tight line. “Watch it, Mickey,” he warned. “You expect me to believe him coming here had nothing to do with you?”

Mickey didn’t answer right away. He took a slow drag on his cigarette and blasted smoke out of his nostrils. Before he replied, he swung his head in Meacham’s direction and settled his impervious gaze on the coach. “What I’d expect is that my coach would congratulate me for winning MVP, not come out here to chit-chat about what my teammate does in his free time.” 

The coach stared intently back at Mickey like his formidable glare should be enough to bend the second baseman to his will. “Congratulations,” he offered, stone-faced, then added, “Don’t waste it.” 

Mickey met the older man’s frown with a cheeky half-smile that practically screamed insubordination. “Oh, I won’t,” he assured him. He’d long since learned the hard way that players didn’t come out on top when they squared off with coaches, but his rebel spirit was determined to stand its ground amidst the clanging of his internal alarm bells. 

He concentrated on his ass, of all things, where he could still sense Ian’s presence. It was one of the perks of being a bottom that he most enjoyed, the ghost of a dick in his ass, hours after sex. He liked the undeniable truth it told, that no matter what his mouth was required to say, his body refused to lie. Every time he’d met his father’s eyes with that ache in his ass it had felt like he’d gained something, like he was yelling the _fuck you_ he couldn’t say. 

_Fuck you, Coach,_ his ass shouted and Mickey’s bold smile held its shape.

The stalemate ended when the coach’s assistant beckoned from the dugout. Meacham strode past Mickey with a huff and returned the way he’d come, leaving the second baseman’s smug visage to crumble. He muttered a “Fuck” at the ground, took a last, harried inhale of his cigarette and rushed into the clubhouse to check on Ian.

He found him in the locker room, catching up with Melendez as they changed into their practice gear. Mickey studied him from a distance until he was satisfied that the relaxed smile he wore was authentic. His teammates detected his presence a moment later. Assaulted by their unwelcome acclaim, he was unceremoniously thrust back into the rigors of team life. Ready or not.

Returning to the grind proved harder than he’d expected; his teammates somehow more irritating than he remembered, the coach’s voice more grating and Ian’s proximity more frustrating. He’d presumed that things would be easier after he’d made his choice but it had had the opposite effect, his epiphanies had turned him resentful of anyone and everything that had forced him to a decision point in the first place. Being with his team only reminded him that nothing had really changed besides his resolve, they still weren’t free and never would be, not while they were playing ball.

To make matters worse, he and Ian gravitated to each other without meaning to, finding themselves constantly within arms’ reach and having to put space between themselves. It was exasperating that they even had to think about it, that just standing too close would be enough to fuel Meacham’s suspicions. Suffice it to say, the day tested his patience, but there were two saving graces: the game itself, as always, and the clandestine visit he held with Ian an hour after they checked in at their hotel. 

They met at the ice machine two levels above the floor that most of the Bisons had been housed on. Tucked inside a small, noisy room near the stairwell, it was the only place they could think to meet without leaving the premises. Ian inspected the knob for a lock when they entered but, finding none, stood with his back against the metal door and summoned Mickey into his arms. Mickey came without delay, melting against Ian’s torso like the other man was his long awaited salvation, which maybe he was if the way the day’s stress drained from his body was any indication.

“One down,” Ian mumbled into his hair. “Forty-eight more to go. Assuming we don’t make the playoffs.”

“You counted?” Mickey chuckled.

“Of course I counted.”

Mickey lifted his chin to smile up at him fondly. “’Course you counted,” he whispered. 

Ian pressed a series of soft kisses onto his lips and returned his smile. “You played great today.”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed. “Too bad our deadbeat teammates thought they were still on break.” He extracted himself from Ian’s hold and motioned for him to sit. Ian slid to the floor and Mickey plunked down beside him. The way they reached for each other was automatic, Ian resting his hand on Mickey’s thigh and Mickey covering it. With his head titled against the door and swivelled towards Ian, Mickey asked, “You ready for tomorrow?”

Ian nodded. “Turns out I get lots of review done when I’m not stressing out about you all day.”

“Good.” Ian’s easy reply reassured him; he took it as further confirmation that Meacham hadn’t interrogated him about his motives for attending the All-Star game. Perhaps the coach would drop it since he hadn’t brought it up with Mickey again after their encounter on the field. For fear of derailing Ian’s focus, he decided not to mention his clash with their coach. “Fowler getting on your nerves yet?” he queried. They’d only had an hour with their new roommates, but the anxious rookie Mickey had been paired with was already well on his way to annoying the fuck out of him.

“When I left he was rearranging all the stuff I’d put in the bathroom and sighing every ten seconds.”

Mickey reconsidered his opinion on his new roomie. “Maybe Hubley’s not half bad.”

“Maybe,” Ian hummed, “but no one will ever compare to your last roommate.”

“I dunno. I think this one might be even jumpier than he was.”

“So, he’s either terrified of you or in love with you?”

“Lucky for you he’s straight.”

“Lucky for _him_ ,” Ian blustered then snickered at his own bravado when Mickey laughed. “How are you always so sure who’s straight and who isn’t, anyway?” Ian wondered. “I _live_ with Fowler and I still can’t tell he’s gay.”

Mickey shrugged. “Straight guys don’t stare at my mouth when I talk.”

Ian’s eyes fell to Mickey’s full lips. “I find that _very_ hard to believe,” he mused in all seriousness. 

They looked up when the knob above Ian’s head rattled. A knock immediately followed and a woman’s voice said, “Hello?” 

Ian signalled to Mickey to stay quiet then called, “Ice machine is out of order!”

“Should I let the staff know?” the woman’s muffled voice replied.

“They already know. I’m here to repair it.” When she didn’t respond he added, “There’s another one on the floor below us.”

Mickey smirked as they listened to her retreating footsteps and the stairwell door opening and closing. “Repairman, huh? This about to turn into a cheesy porno?”

“Hey, I’m game if you are,” Ian teased, leaning towards Mickey wearing a silly smile. “You shoulda kept your moustache.” Mickey accepted the kiss that Ian pecked onto his lips and pulled him back for another and another. 

The knob above their heads jiggled again and someone banged on the door when Ian and Mickey’s weight held it closed. Ian gave the same story to the guy on the other side that he’d given to the woman before. “We shouldn’t stay here much longer,” he cautioned after he was sure the man had left. The ice machine picked that moment to drop a fresh batch of ice into its main compartment, triggering both men to flinch at the clatter and subsequent hiss it made as the moulds refilled. 

Resigned to their fate, they stood. “We’ll find a better spot tomorrow,” Mickey pledged despite having no idea of where that might be.

Ian was stoic. “It’ll be fine.” 

They traded encouraging smiles, a few lingering kisses, then slipped out of the room and into the hall. 

***

After seven innings of watching Ian own the Clippers, Mickey had a renewed sense that everything would, indeed, be fine. He’d also come to a conclusion: when Ian was on fire, he was like a moth to his flame. 

The redhead had dominated practically every batter that had come to the plate, throwing balls like bullets, and convincing Mickey time and again that strikeouts could be a potent aphrodisiac. His confidence was mesmeric, as were his biceps, and Mickey’s favorite part was the aloof way he strode off the mound every time his third out went down swinging. Mickey stopped trying to suppress his come-fuck-me eyes by the fourth inning and Ian had noticed. They’d exchanged so many illicit glances by the sixth that Ian couldn’t have been surprised when Mickey trotted past him on his way to the dugout and declared, in no uncertain terms, “We’re fucking tonight.” He didn’t know where yet, or how, but they were fucking. 

As fortune would have it, Ian required some post game shoulder attention that kept him from joining their teammates for the bus ride back to the hotel. Mickey watched him follow their trainer into one of the manual therapy rooms and had the sudden urge for a lengthy workout. He outlasted Peralta who left ten minutes before Ian returned to the locker room, shirtless and smirking when he spotted Mickey. 

Mickey climbed off the bike he’d been pedaling and wordlessly undressed at his locker while Ian did the same. They walked to the shower in silent tandem, selected their adjacent faucets and switched on their streams. Mickey dipped under the water long enough to rid himself of the worst of the days sweat then strode purposefully towards Ian.

“Dave’s still here,” Ian warned on a chuckle.

Mickey shoved him up against the tiled wall and let his eyes drift down his chest. “He won’t come in here,” Mickey assured him, smoothing his palms over his pecks. The trainer never showered in the clubhouse and Mickey wasn’t in a waiting mood. He pressed their bodies flush and trailed slow kisses across Ian’s jaw that turned to nips when he reached his neck. 

“Maybe we should try to find somewhere else,” Ian suggested weakly but his grip on Mickey’s hips and the way he closed his eyes and angled his head in an effort to grant better access lent no credence to his words. Mickey ignored him and seized his hardening cock. “Never mind,” Ian shuddered, sucking air in sharply through his teeth, “here’s good.” He leaned his head all the way back on the tile and relinquished control to Mickey’s mouth and hands. 

A self-satisfied smile split Mickey’s lips where they brushed against Ian’s ear. “I’m gonna suck your dick,” he hummed in a desire drenched voice that broached no argument, “and you’re gonna finish in my ass.” Ian bobbled his head in eager agreement as Mickey dropped, his arousal glazed eyes tracking the brunet’s descent to his knees. 

Mickey pressed Ian’s erection into his abdomen and started with his sack, he’d been watching men eat Ian’s balls all evening and he wanted his turn. He licked their sensitive seam at the same time he thumbed the underside of Ian’s dick, dual sensations that tickled a low whine out of the pitcher’s throat. Mickey’s careful suckling from one side to the other transformed Ian’s whine into a groan that reverberated delightfully in his groin. Mickey upped the intensity a little, quickening his pace and stretching each testicle just the right amount before giving it slack. 

He tongued his way to the base of Ian’s cock and along its length to the head, bringing it into his mouth with a vehemence that drove Ian’s fingers into the nape of his neck. Mickey settled into his no nonsense rhythm, finding great pleasure in the weight and warmth of Ian in his mouth, the scrape of dull nails on his skin and the chafe of buzzed pubes against his nose. But when Ian’s hips began to subtly thrust in time with his head, there was simply no denying Mickey’s nature, because when it came right down to it, he _always_ preferred to get fucked.

With his hands firm on Ian’s thighs, he spat his dick out, hauled him off the wall and spun them until they’d exchanged places. He propped himself against the tile and pulled Ian back into his mouth, using insistent fingers to encourage the redhead to move. When Ian clued in to what he wanted he growled an, “Oh, sweet Jesus,” and fisted the hair at the top of Mickey's head. 

He started gently, testing Mickey’s considerable tolerance, but Mickey grinning up at him with messy lips and eyebrows peaked in challenge every time Ian paused to let him breathe seemed to spur the redhead on. It wasn’t long before he had braced a hand on the wall and was fucking Mickey’s mouth as hard and deep as he’d ever fucked his ass. Mickey was unflappable, tirelessly swallowing Ian’s cock like a hungry black hole, greedy and just about defying the laws of physics.

Ian’s moans intensified in time with his plunges, doing as much to turn Mickey on as the nine inches of pulsating flesh down his throat. With a final stroke and a wild groan, Ian buried himself and froze. Meeting the brunet’s watering blue eyes he pulled out and told him to get up. When Mickey complied, Ian turned him sharply into the wall and husked, “That fucking _mouth_.”

Mickey swiped saliva off his chin and threw a smug smile over his shoulder that Ian snared with his teeth. He sucked on Mickey’s lips while he groped for his hole with one hand and smacked the shower dispenser on the wall beside their heads with the other. His frantic strikes shot conditioner everywhere but enough filled his palm to transfer onto his dick. He pushed into Mickey without preamble and, at first, Mickey welcomed the familiar burn of his invasion, resting his forehead on the tile and letting the sensation overtake him.

He waited for the inevitable moment when the minor sting would morph into intense pleasure, but it never came. Instead, there was a perplexing moment of realization when it became apparent that it was getting worse. He gritted his teeth and tried to bear it. Ian rutted behind him, unaware of Mickey’s plight, his impassioned stabs only getting more forceful as Mickey’s discomfort grew. The inferno built and built and built until suddenly Mickey reached the pinnacle of his agony and yelled, at top volume, “What the FUCK!” He bucked a startled Ian, propelling him and his flaming dick away. 

Ian’s slicked up fingers scrambled for purchase on Mickey’s hips as the soles of his feet skidded in the mess of conditioner he’d made; he was going down and he was taking Mickey with him. There was nothing besides the shower dispenser for Mickey to hold onto but the entire device came away in his hands. Ian hit the tile floor ass first with a loud “OOF,” that he followed with a frenzied string of WHOAS as he switched from pulling Mickey to desperately trying to keep him from crashing on top of his dick. They achieved a precarious equilibrium, with Mickey hovering directly over Ian’s erection, his ass cradled in the redhead’s hands, just as Dave came through the shower room door.

Dave’s saucer eyed expression flitted from Mickey, to Ian, to Ian’s groin, to Mickey’s ass, then back again. An eon went by, an actual billion years with the running water the only thing that disturbed the scene, and then Dave mumbled, “Sorry, I heard yelling,” and pivoted away.

Mickey fought to regain his footing and charged after him; liberated from supporting his weight, Ian collapsed flat on the tile. Mickey was through the door and nipping at Dave’s heels before the trainer had made it more than a few yards. 

“Hey, hold up!” he ordered.

Dave turned, hands elevated and palms facing out in surrender. “I don’t want any trouble, Mickey,” he begged. His eyes darted to the broken shower dispenser that Mickey still held.

Mickey exhaled an irritated puff of air and tossed the ruined contraption into a nearby chair. He snagged a towel from the floor and wrapped it around his waist, ignoring the fact that it was most likely used. “Look, that wasn’t what you thi-,” he started.

Dave interrupted with a flustered assurance, “I don’t give a shit, okay? I swear I won’t say anything.” There was a barely concealed tremor in the trainer’s voice. The guy was scared, really scared, and Mickey made the snap decision to use it to his advantage.

He abandoned the far-fetched denial he’d been about to make and adjusted his entire demeanor, shifting from mild mannered conciliator to practiced intimidator in an instant. God knew it was easy enough to channel some of his recent frustrations into a display of his South Side roots. With a cruel smile curling his lips, he took a step toward the trainer. “Say a word,” he threatened, “and you’ll be shitting your teeth out in the E.R.” The fingers of his ‘fuck’ hand twisted menacingly in the collar of Dave’s shirt. “You got it?” 

Dave had four inches and at least forty pounds on him, but the trainer couldn’t nod fast enough. Even Mickey was taken aback by the chillingly smooth quality of his voice, it had been a while since he’d hit that timbre. He studied the trainer with unnerving calm until he was certain the man had been suitably terrorized then released him. The way Dave stumbled backward like he’d been hit was undeniably satisfying. 

“Get outta here,” Mickey commanded and Dave scrambled from the locker room. Mickey dropped his thug persona along with his towel and returned to the showers where he found Ian still laying on the wet floor with his fingers splayed across his face. “You okay?” he asked.

The redhead’s hands slid to his hair, revealing eyes that were no less than traumatized. “I thought you were gonna break my dick,” he croaked.

Mickey couldn’t suppress the smile that Ian’s pitiable state spawned. “Your dick’s just fine.” He stretched a helping hand down to him. “C’mon. Fuck knows what disease you’ll catch off that floor.”

Ian allowed himself to be pulled up but stood before Mickey in bewildered distress as he tried to recover his wits and bring himself up to speed. “What just happened?” he queried. “Why’d you freak out like that? What did Dave say?” He lowered his chin, then his tone and inquired gravely, “Did you kill him?”

Mickey screwed up his face. “The fuck?!” he spluttered, flailing appalled hands at Ian. “No, I didn’t _kill_ him. He said he’d keep his mouth shut.” He huffed an agitated noise and continued, “Conditioner makes _terrible_ fuckin’ lube, is what happened. Use Tabasco next time, it’ll hurt less.” In Mickey’s mind, the endearingly sheepish way Ian cringed and scratched at the back of his neck would have absolved him of much worse follies than setting his ass on fire and accusing him of murder.

“You think Dave will talk?” 

“I doubt it. He was practically pissin’ himself.”

Ian worried his lip and nodded. They didn’t need to voice what might happen if the trainer didn’t keep his word. He stepped up to Mickey and dropped his forehead onto his shoulder. “Why are we so _bad_ at this?” he groaned. Mickey stroked his arms and contemplated that. Why _were_ they so bad at this? When no reply was forthcoming, Ian picked his head up and revealed, “I think Jorge knows about us, too.”

“Melendez? Why?”

“He saw Mockey in your bag yesterday when you were out for your smoke. He’s seen him in my room before, he knows he’s mine.”

“That doll bein’ in my bag doesn’t mean shit.”

“I know,” Ian went on, “but I get the feeling he’s been on to us for awhile.” Mickey stared back at him, processing, and Ian watched his expression with concern. “If he hasn’t said anything by now, I don’t think he will. I don’t want you to worry.”

“Meacham asked me about you yesterday,” Mickey abruptly divulged. “He thinks I’m the reason you came here for the All-Star game.”

Ian sighed and echoed Mickey’s foremost thought, “What a fucking mess.” With so many balls in the air, one was bound to drop, it was only a matter of which and when, but Ian regained his confidence quickly. “It’ll be fine,” he reiterated, sounding no less sure than he had the day before. “We’ll be fine.”

There was a time when Mickey had mistaken Ian’s courage for recklessness, naiveté even, but not anymore; he wasn’t posturing, he was ready, come what may. Love had made him brave, a crazy kind of brave that Mickey hadn’t understood until he’d felt it too. They’d be fine because they had each other. “Yeah,” Mickey agreed, tipping his face up to Ian’s, “we’ll be fine. You don’t have to keep shit from me. I’m not gonna freak out.”

“Okay,” Ian agreed. “Then don’t keep shit from me either.” 

They’d been protecting each other when they should have been drawing strength from one another. Figuring out how to love in dubious surroundings was probably harder than it should have been, but at least their intentions were pure. Mickey slid his fingers onto Ian’s neck and looked him in the eye. “I won’t,” he swore. 

“So what do we do now?”

Mickey shrugged. “What can we do?”

“No spiel about being more careful?”

“Fuck. If we’re any more careful we’ll never see each other.” 

There was an extended pause while Ian considered Mickey’s stance. “I _really_ like this new attitude,” he concluded. Mickey glimpsed a smile cross his lips just before they touched down on his own. A few reassuring pecks later and he felt the redhead’s smile broaden into a grin. He whispered, “Sorry about the conditioner by the way. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I’ll be blowin’ bubbles outta my ass all night.”

Ian snuffed a laugh into Mickey’s cheek. “Does it still hurt?”

“It’s outta order, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m being sympathetic,” Ian claimed but then he pursed his lips. “Your mouth out of order, too?”

“Janitors are gonna show up here soon.”

“Right,” Ian acknowledged, flashing his teeth. “So, we better hurry.”

“Gettin’ caught once today not enough for you?” Mickey guided the horny idiot towards the nearest shower. “You’ll have no one to suck your dick in fuckin’ Fresno or wherever they ship you.” 

“Just offering to let you finish what you started,” Ian argued guiltlessly but there was a playful quirk to his mouth when he ducked under his stream and glanced over at Mickey. “California, huh? Nice.”

Mickey backed into the shower behind him, rolling his eyes at Ian’s taunting. “Yeah, real nice. You can spend every dime you make on sunscreen.”

The amused sound that Ian snorted was promptly followed by the commencement of his tuneless humming, a barely recognizable rendition of California Dreamin’ that he launched into with shoulders shaking, proving just how fine he was despite the uncertainty that loomed. He broke into actual song for the chorus and Mickey was having none of his off key vocals. “Christ,” he complained, “you standin’ on your dick over there?” Louder crooning was Ian’s only reply but now his melody was punctuated by intermittent snickering. “You hopin’ I’ll suck you off just to shut you up?” Mickey speculated.

Ian halted his singing to quirk an eyebrow at him. “That a possibility?”

Bathing complete, Mickey cut his water and approached him. “Nope,” he negated and Ian whimpered into the goodbye kiss that was pressed onto his lips. “Tomorrow,” Mickey promised. “I’m gonna head out.” They had to return to their hotel separately anyway, better to say their goodbyes in the relative privacy of the shower room before the cleaning staff arrived.

“K,” Ian said quietly, soft voice mirroring his soft smile. “Love you.”

“You, too.”

“Forty-seven to go,” Ian reminded him as they broke apart.

“Bet you got the day circled with a big fuckin’ heart on your calendar.” 

Ian gasped. “You mean you _don’t_?” 

Mickey pushed through the door into the locker room sporting a wide grin. Their joking aside, they both knew the stakes, they understood the predicament they were in, but fuck if they wouldn’t find a way to laugh anyway. It was them, it was what they’d always done, and it felt fortifying.

He dumped the broken shower dispenser into the towel hamper knowing it wouldn’t help; the team was going to get reamed for it tomorrow regardless. Assuming Dave kept his word, they’d never find the culprit. 

And if he didn’t? If Dave ratted? If Meacham was plotting Ian’s exit or Melendez wasn’t as liberal as he seemed? 

Mickey had yet to meet a coach that didn’t love to quote Benjamin Franklin: “By failing to prepare, you’re preparing to fail”. Hearing it recited countless times every season for the last dozen or so years must have made an impression because Mickey left the clubhouse with it ringing in his ears; it was time to make a plan. 

***

The remainder of their six game road trip could almost be called uneventful in comparison to the beginning. To all outward appearances, it was business as usual in the Bisons’ clubhouse. Only Mickey and Ian had the extra burden of their secret to carry on top of the usual pressures of playing professional ball. Apart from the few menacing looks that Mickey directed at Dave for good measure and the daily struggle of staying far enough apart to allay Meacham’s suspicions, the hardest part was simply never getting enough time together. 

There were moments though, and as fleeting and unfulfilling as they were, they were the highlights of each day. Every hidden smile they shared across the locker room, every softly spoken word they dared to exchange, every furtive touch they brushed against one another in passing, helped to ground them both in the other. It was how they coped, biding their time until they could sneak away again. Finding adequate rendezvous sites remained a challenge, but no matter how imperfect the locale or how rushed their reunion, those too-fast minutes at the end of each day quickly replaced the field as their haven. 

Even the unsavory tavern they cabbed to on their final day in Columbus had felt like a refuge for a while. A fair distance from the ballpark and the sort of establishment where discretion was held in high regard, it looked to be a viable spot for Mickey to make good on the promise he’d given in the wake of their shower fiasco. 

It had started so well. They’d watched sports highlights on a grainy TV and nursed beers at the bar, retreating to a cramped bathroom stall only after they’d had the chance to unwind in each other’s company. Hasty kisses had given way to impatient fingers and soon Mickey was dirtying his knees on the grubby concrete floor. Ian had reclined against the wall and gotten busy appreciating his boyfriend’s sacrifice, quickly noting that their less than ideal surroundings were of little consequence when he was balls deep in Mickey’s throat. 

But, like their unfortunate tryst in the clubhouse, it wasn’t meant to be. This time, the interruption came in the form of a dick, a bona fide human penis poking Ian roughly in the ass. A _stranger’s_ dick, to be clear, and not one that Ian had been expecting to come knocking at his backdoor. 

It had taken him a few seconds to account for all ten of Mickey’s digits, a few _horrifying _seconds with the interloper probing at his bare asshole, before he’d concluded that it couldn’t possibly be his boyfriend that was ramming at his rim. He’d lurched away from the wall in shrieking panic, leaving Mickey with a suddenly empty mouth and an eyeful of seedy schlong, but also an invaluable life lesson: best to check for glory holes prior to dropping your pants. For the second time in as many months, Ian found himself using vodka for sanitization purposes.__

__Their mood understandably ruined, they’d returned to the hotel a little defeated and a lot grossed out. Ian had anyway, when he’d last seen Mickey he was still busting a gut in the bar’s foyer._ _

__Then there was the park they’d frequented in Charlotte. Nowhere near as creepy as their playground in Buffalo, it was still a little off-putting to be there after dark. They’d made the best of it but opted to keep their dicks safely stowed for the duration of their visits. Ian was content just to sit next to Mickey, to focus his eyes on him freely, to touch his leg or his hand without glancing around to check who’d noticed._ _

It wasn’t perfect, but at least it wasn’t an unintentional threesome. It was fine, they were fine, and by the end of the road trip there were _only_ forty-three more days to go. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm splitting this chapter again or I will never stop editing this portion!! >:{

Ian pitched against the Durham Bulls their first game back in Buffalo. As the top team in the South division, Durham was guaranteed to be tough to beat, but Ian was up for the challenge. His teammates, on the other hand, were contending with more than one foe. Their early AM catered breakfast on the bus ride home had harboured an undetected opponent, taking down three of their position players, two coaches and four pitchers before they’d even reached West Virginia. The tiny bus bathroom, overrun and eventually ruined, was nothing short of a biohazard.

Alas, their collective nightmare only  _began_  with their ten hour trek from Charlotte; when, at long last, they arrived at Coca Field, there was still a game to play. Without the luxury of days off, the men had no choice but to drag themselves onto the field rather than drag themselves to bed, or to the hospital, where they more likely belonged.

Ian climbed the mound at the commencement of the game in good form, not the slightest bit queasy; either he hadn’t eaten whatever had made everyone ill (the eggs were highly suspected) or his years of ingesting what passed as food at the Gallagher house had rendered him immune. He set to his task with his usual efficacy, but as one of the few completely healthy men remaining, he was forced to perform double duty, retiring Bulls at the plate in the top of each inning and tending to Bisons in the dugout in the bottom. The men spent their rest periods splayed on the bench, either chugging Gatorade or throwing it up, priming themselves for another sluggish return to the field when their time was up.

Ian started to suspect Mickey was sick in the fifth when the speedy infielder got on first but made no move towards second despite the Durham pitcher doing little to hold him. At the close of the inning, Ian carried Mickey’s cap and glove to him on his way to the mound, trusting that Meacham would be too distracted to notice. “You nauseous?” he asked when he reached him.

Mickey grumbled an unconvincing, “No,” and took his gear. “I don’t get sick.” The second baseman’s sunken eyes and paler than usual complexion contradicted his assertion, but Ian didn’t argue. He watched Mickey jog into position, grateful that he seemed to at least be faring better than some of their teammates, several of whom appeared to be using all their strength just to stay upright. Two had already been carted away by medics for rehydration purposes and another was replaced when he upchucked in right field.

Ian’s propensity for strikeouts was the one thing that kept the game close; apart from a few base hits, the Bisons were having no luck at the plate. He got them through seven innings with only three runs scored against them, a small miracle given the state of the men behind him. From the mound, all he could do was give his team a chance to win and he had, but to no avail, after seven innings of first-rate pitching, he earned his second L of the season.

His loss wasn’t what concerned him though, not when his boyfriend was looking worse by the minute. He approached Mickey at his locker after most of the room had cleared out. As if Ian needed more evidence that the brunet was sick, Mickey barely glanced in his direction, though it was enough to notice the worry on Ian’s face, apparently, because the second baseman immediately pre-empted, “I’m not sick.”

“You’re sick,” Ian countered.

“I’m  _tired_. Couldn’t sleep on the bus with half the goddamn team spewin’ their guts up.”

“Did you eat the eggs?”

“Stop.”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Mickey glanced at him, dropping his eyes to Ian’s bare chest and then his abs in a toned down version of his signature eye fuck. “How ‘bout you make sure I’m okay later?”

“Mickey-,” Ian warned, determined to exercise better judgement.

The second baseman was equally as determined to ignore Ian’s cautionary tone. “Dave gonna work on you?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighed. Despite successfully avoiding the trainer since his last start, letting his conditioning suffer after an outing wasn’t an option.

“I’m gonna borrow Axford’s car. I’ll go home with him and come back to pick you up. We’ll get food.”

Ian wanted that, he wanted that so badly, but he tried to make Mickey listen to reason one last time, “You should be resting tonight instead.”

“Ian,” Mickey exhaled, stepping out of his uniform pants, “fuck off.”

Relieved that Mickey hadn’t been sapped of his spunk and more than a little sidetracked by the appearance of his jockstrap bound ass, Ian smiled just as Dave popped his head in from the hall and mimed that he was ready. “I’ll be about an hour,” he relented. “But text me if you’re feeling worse and we’ll do it another night.”

Mickey dismissed him and his concerns with a weary, “Uh huh.”

Ian found Dave standing over his readied massage table sporting a strained smile. After an exchange of perfunctory nods, Ian got into position, seated with the trainer standing at the ready behind him. Painfully awkward silence ensued, pervading the small manual therapy room as they slipped into their usual routine. The two had always had a good rapport, filling their frequent sessions with easy baseball chatter, but today the contrast only made the quiet more unnerving.

Ian, being Ian, floundered in the unease, racking his brain for something to say that might put an end to the torment. Dave beat him to it, steering clear of the elephant in the room by asking how his shoulder had felt in the later innings.

“Good,” Ian answered mindlessly, but that wasn’t the case, his shoulder had been bothering him since the sixth. “I mean, not good,” he blubbered, then cringed.

Dave’s fingers froze deep in his flesh. “So… not good?”

“Yes. Not good,” Ian confirmed. The trainer slowly resumed his kneading without probing for further details but the mounting tension had become unbearable to Ian. “Maybe we should talk about what happened?” he blurted.

“I haven’t told anybody,” Dave asserted quickly.

“That’s not why I… I just don’t want this to be weird.”

“It’s not.” Dave dropped his hands when Ian twisted around and gave him a dubious look. “Okay, it is a little,” he admitted. “But like I told Mickey, I don’t give a shit.”

“Because you’re scared of him?”

“Because it’s 2018 and I’m not a homophobe,” he huffed. “Look, there’s no way in hell I want on Mickey’s bad side, but I wouldn’t have said anything anyway. I’ve seen what can happen when stuff like this gets out.”

Ian squinted at him. “In baseball?”

“Yeah, in baseball. You think you’re the only player to ever get caught with another guy?”

“No, I just… When? What happened?”

Dave’s eyes softened as he directed Ian to face forward again so he could keep working. “It was Double-A.,” he began. “O-four, I think, maybe o-five. Kid named Hobbs. He made a gay sex tape and stashed it somewhere in his apartment. Roommate found it and shared it with the team.”

“Shit,” Ian breathed.

“The players were brutal. Hobbs quit a month later. Overdosed a couple months after that.”

“That’s…,” Ian shook his head in quiet disbelief rather than finish his sentence. “What about the coach? What did he do?”

“Meacham?”

“No, the coach on the Double-A team.”

“Yeah, Meacham.”

Ian whirled around. “ _Meacham_  was the coach on that team?”

Dave bobbed his head in confirmation. “He hired me on here when he got this job.” He furrowed his brow at Ian’s open mouthed gaping, but continued, “Meacham did what he could, but even if the team behaved themselves on the bench, there wasn’t much he could do away from the field. Hobbs was a nice guy, talented, Coach liked him a lot. How it all went down… he took it really hard.”

“Meacham tried to  _help_  him?” Ian whispered, more to himself than to Dave.

“He dragged the worst of them over the coals, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.” Dave nudged an unblinking Ian back into position and carried on with his therapy. Sensing the pitcher’s reeling thoughts, the trainer attempted to comfort him. “That was nearly fifteen years ago and every team is different. We’ve got a good group of guys here. Not that I would recommend getting caught by anyone else.”

Ian wasn’t hearing him; he was still stuck on what the trainer had divulged about the coach. If Meacham wasn’t a homophobe, if he was just trying to protect Mickey from the kind of situation that he’d seen go terribly wrong before… what did that mean for them? He remained quiet after that, replying with grunts and one word answers, craving the silence he’d suffered at the beginning of their session so he could think.

At the completion of his treatment, Dave dismissed him only after he’d promised to ask Mickey to ease up on the withering glares. On his way to Axford’s car, the trainer’s request was on the tip of his tongue, but it dissolved when he laid eyes on his boyfriend. “Jesus, Mickey, you look like  _shit_ ,” he observed from the passenger seat of the coupe; even his hotter than hot leather jacket couldn’t compensate for the alarming hue of his skin.

Mickey rolled his eyes as he put the car in gear. “I know fuck all about dates but I’m pretty sure that’s not how you’re supposed to start ‘em.”

“This is a date?”

“We’re gonna eat before we bang. What else would you call it?”

“I dunno. You forcing food down your throat and then throwing up all over me?”

“Still a date.”

Ian heaved a frustrated sigh. “The only place we should be eating on our  _date_  is from the vending machine at the nearest emergency room.”

“Gallagher, are you gonna keep-”

“Nope, I’m done.”

“Good.”

“I won’t even mention that you’re  _literally_  grey,” he added then smiled pleasantly when Mickey side-eyed him. “Where we going?”

“Taco place on Pearl Street.”

“ _Tacos_?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Ian chimed. “Tacos sound like a  _great_  idea.”

As they pulled out of the nearly empty parking lot and onto the streets of Buffalo, the bright lights of Coca Cola Field receded behind them. Ian watched them grow fainter in the side mirror, his fingertips tapping a rhythm out on the knee of his jeans as his mind drifted back to his conversation with Dave.

“How did it go with Dave?” Mickey asked, as finely tuned to Ian’s thoughts as ever.

Ian tilted his head toward him and smiled, “He asked me to call you off.”

“You gonna?”

“He won’t say anything. I’m sure of it.” Ian chewed his lip as Mickey nodded. “You ever heard of a kid named Hobbs? Played in Double-A about fifteen years ago?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He was gay. His team found out, he quit and ended up overdosing. Meacham was his coach at the time.”

“So? You surprised Meacham has a history of fucking gays over?”

“That’s the thing… Dave says Meacham tried to help, that the whole thing was really hard on him. If Meacham thinks he’s protecting you from what happened to Hobbs, maybe we can talk to him and-”

“And what? Convince him to accept our big gay love story?” Mickey scoffed. “If he doesn’t then we would’ve just told him that we’re still fucking around. Besides, if it’s not Meacham then it’ll be some other asshole down the road tryin’ to pull the exact same shit. What’s the point?”

“I guess,” Ian conceded softly.

Mickey slid his hand onto Ian’s knee and squeezed gently. “C’mon,” he urged, “let’s just forget about this crap for tonight, okay?”

Ian replied with an honest smile. Just knowing Mickey was committed to him, to them, was more than he could ask for, he wouldn’t push it.

Preoccupied with Mickey’s condition and his revelations about Meacham, it wasn’t until they parked across from the taco place on Pearl Street that it occurred to him that they were actually going out in public together in Buffalo, alone. Before he could push open his door, Mickey tightened his grip on his leg to warn him. ”We gotta lay low in here.”

“I know,” Ian assured him and he stretched across the centre console to peck a quick kiss onto his lips.

Greasy and a little unkempt, the taco place proved to be just the kind of no nonsense eatery that Ian favoured. What it lacked in décor, it more than made up for in heavenly aroma. Take-out only and serviced by just two people, it was still busy with the post-game crowd from the nearby field. Within thirty seconds of getting in line, Ian noticed more than one person do a double take when they spotted them. He smiled kindly at anyone who caught his eye until Mickey nudged his shoulder and hissed, “Don’t make eye contact with them.”

Ian stammered an apology and switched his focus to the menu above the counter. With at least a half dozen sets of eyes burrowing into him, he stared intently at the simple list long after he’d decided on his order. Mickey, far more accustomed to being recognized than Ian, busied himself on his phone like a pro, seemingly unaffected by the weird hush that had overtaken the small establishment.

All it took was Ian dropping his eyes for a split second to extend an invitation, apparently, to the inebriated man in front of him to drop a heavy arm onto his shoulders. Mickey audibly groaned but there was no stemming the tide after that; someone produced a pen and the ballplayers were quickly surrounded. Inundated with autograph requests,  _laying low_  was no longer a possibility. As more patrons arrived, they too joined the throng of fans that wanted a moment with the local baseball stars.

Ian kept expecting Mickey to put up a fight, especially since he was fielding the brunt of the attention, but he was uncharacteristically quiet as he signed ticket stubs and accepted handshakes and shoulder claps from strangers. Not that he looked delighted to be doing it, far from it, but he remained courteous if not exactly friendly. Even when they were asked to flank a fan for a picture, he politely insisted they take photos separately then posed for the first of many. Ian wasn’t sure if he should be proud of him or gravely worried about his health.

At long last, they were ushered to the front of the line where the unenthusiastic kid manning the register inquired dully, “Can I get you something?’

“Nah,” Mickey snapped, “just thought I’d see if you wanted an autograph, too.”

That was more like it. Ian offered up their taco orders with a grin.

Back in the privacy of Axford’s car, Mickey reclined against the seat and closed his eyes. Ian seized his chance to feel his forehead. “You’re warm.”

Mickey brushed his hand off when people strolled past the car. “Let’s find somewhere better to park.”

 _Somewhere better_  turned out to be an old favourite, none other than the famed School of Future Axe Murderers and Serial Killers of America. Implausibly, the place was in even worse repair than when they’d last visited, but the steel walls of the car kept most of the eerie vibes at bay. They pulled into a spot that was shielded from the street by a dumpster, cut the engine and switched on the overhead light.

Ian plopped Mickey’s tacos onto his lap and dug into his own with the kind of gusto that only pitching seven innings of professional baseball could muster. “You were pretty nice to those fans at the taco place,” he mumbled around a bite.

Mickey poked at his taco disinterestedly. “If I told them to fuck off they’d just take pictures of us anyway.”

“Doubt that ever stopped you before.”

“It’s different with you there.”

Ian didn’t need to ask why; he knew it was because they would have both been in the photos and there was no telling where those photos would end up. “So why’d we even risk going there?”

“I dunno, man. I didn’t think it would still be so busy. Besides, it’s just food, ya know? It shouldn’t be so fuckin’ difficult to pick up some tacos and hang out.”

“It won’t get any easier once you’re in the big leagues.”

“Sure it will. I’ll pay some lackey to get my food for me.”

“Oh, yeah? Is that how it’s gonna be?” Ian snorted. “I can see it now. First you’ll have a team of lackeys catering to your every need, next you’ll be driving a custom Lambo in head to toe Gucci.” He grinned with his whole face at the image he’d conjured. “Then you’ll take an insurance policy out on your ass.”

“Alright,” Mickey laughed, “shut the fuck up and eat the food I suffered for.”

Ian pointed with his Taco at Mickey’s lap. “You’re not eating yours.”

Mickey peered down at his food, nose scrunched in obvious aversion, but picked up a taco anyway. His expression morphed into one of determination before he took a generous bite, chewed it rapidly and swallowed with a cringe inducing gulp.

“Good?” Ian teased.

“Great,” Mickey barked and took another bite, then another and another. The second taco disappeared as quickly as the first. He froze after he was done, ashen and blinking at the steering wheel.

Ian was shaking his head. “You should not have done that.”

“Finish your food,” Mickey ordered feebly.

“I did.”

Mickey glanced at him, saw that he had, and seemed to steel himself, much like he’d done before devouring his taco. He swept his wrappers onto the floor and made to climb over the centre console onto the passenger seat with Ian.

“You can’t be serious,” Ian scoffed but it was all too clear that he was. Ian hurried to push the garbage off his lap and press his back into the seat as the brunet straddled his thighs.

“Put the seat down.”

“So you can puke  _directly_  onto my face?”

“I’m not gonna puke on you,” Mickey promised and then he was fully seated and his hands were on Ian’s face and he was licking his lips and eyeing him in that way that made the redhead as weak in his resolve as it did in his knees. “Put the seat down,” he repeated, this time with a slow smirk because he already knew he’d won.

Crypt, locker room shower, teammate’s car with the very real threat of eating vomit… what did it matter when Mickey looked at him like that? His fingers had already found their way under the hem of his shirt, seeking skin without waiting for conscious thought.

He groped for the seat-recline lever and pulled until they’d made a jerky decent to a nearly flat position. Mickey stifled a wince at the motion but it didn’t faze him for long; he connected their mouths like he had a point to prove. And it was terribly easy for Ian to forget how awful he looked when he tasted so  _good_. He felt good too, toned and impossibly warm under the leather that stretched across his back. Ian let himself get into it, or more truthfully, couldn’t  _stop_  himself from getting into it, because the quick and timid make-out sessions they’d managed at the park in Charlotte had only left him wanting more.

He slid Mickey’s jacket off his shoulders and part way down his arms, leaving it for him to shrug the rest of the way off. Mickey discarded it without detaching their mouths, his fingertips back dragging across Ian’s stubble before the garment had hit the driver’s side floor. Ian keened into the touch, his misgivings utterly lost to Mickey’s overwhelming sexiness and his own irrefutable need. He curled his hand round the back of Mickey’s head and shoved his tongue deep into his mouth.

Mickey choked out a strangled gag and recoiled away. “No tongue,” he wheezed then dropped back to Ian’s lips like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Ian fluttered his lashes at the car ceiling as his good sense returned to him in a rush. “Um!” he mumble-exclaimed into the kiss. “You still okay?!”

Mickey hovered his lips over Ian’s all too briefly. “Yeah,” he decided and plunged back down.

“Because, um!” Ian continued franticly, and thankfully Mickey moved his mouth to his neck. “If we do this, you realize there will be a lot of… jostling? Like, a  _lot_  of jostling.”

Mickey paused again, longer this time, and finally sank his forehead into the seatback with an exasperated sigh. “I’m a little queasy,” he admitted.

 _No fucking kidding_ , Ian might have replied if Mickey hadn’t sounded so totally thwarted. “Uh huh,” he acknowledged instead.

“I shouldn’t have eaten those tacos.”

“Nuh uh.”

“I just wanted to eat and get laid, ya know? Have a normal fuckin’ night.”

“I know,” Ian sympathized. He carded the hair on the back of Mickey’s head as the brunet continued to voice muffled complaints into the fabric above his shoulder.

“Shoulda known the motherfuckin’ eggs were bad; they tasted like swampy ass.”

Ian raised a surprised brow. “You know what swampy ass tastes like? I didn’t know you even ate-,” he began but stopped when he thought better of it. “Not the time,” he concluded.

Another long sigh and Mickey attempted to push himself up. His irritable stomach protested loudly at the shift, sloshing and bubbling in much the same sickening way that Ian had heard their teammates’ abdomens gurgle countless times that day… right before they hurled. He helped propel Mickey into a sitting position and anxiously scanned his features.

Mickey’s eyes went wide and Ian’s followed. “You gonna puke?”

“Oh yeah, yup,” Mickey nodded with his hand fisted over his mouth. Ian dove for the door, thrust it open and heaved the ailing brunet off of him and into the parking lot. He scrambled out after him just in time to rub his back as Mickey tossed his tacos into the shrubbery in front of the car.

“Jesus, that was close,” Ian panted.

Mickey stayed doubled over after his first bout of retching, braced for an inevitable second wave, and Ian made the mistake of peering into the shadows around them as he waited. The waxing crescent moon barely gave any light, but it was enough to see the outlines of the playground equipment beyond the parking lot; the double slide they’d fought on a lifetime ago and the demonic swing still moving on its eternal arc. “This place didn’t get any less creepy,” he muttered and Mickey gurgled something unintelligible.

His eyes skidded over the smattering of graffiti on the side of the building and landed on what he was sure was a new addition: a wraithlike child outlined in grey on a black background, its large round eyes glowing almost supernaturally white in the dark. He had to squint to read the words that were written at its feet in messy adolescent print.  _swing with me?_

Mickey was spewing into the bushes again and Ian was trying to remain calm, but his soothing strokes had turned into anxious taps. “You almost done?” he squeaked. Mickey didn’t answer, of course, and Ian did his best to compose himself despite the creaking of the incessant swing. He was no coward, but there were too many things  _wrong_  with the place; the air, stagnant and hazy with particles, the too dark dark and the swing, the fucking ghost-child swinging swing...

He crouched beside Mickey and beamed into his nausea stricken face, “Wow, you look  _so_  much better!” he lied. “So much better!” He stood and hauled Mickey upright with him. “Let’s get you back in the car.”

“Huh?” Mickey stammered.

“Come on. In you go. I’ll drive.” He propped Mickey up with one arm and yanked the passenger seat into position with the other.

“I’m gonna puke in the fuckin’ car,” Mickey protested.

“No, no, you’re fine. Get in,” Ian urged and when Mickey didn’t budge he started pushing. “Just get in, Mickey!” he pleaded. “You held it all day! You can hold it ‘til you get home!”

Mickey allowed himself to be jammed into the coupe, his brows thoroughly knit from sickness and confusion. Ian slammed his door shut and whirled around to check that nothing had snuck up from behind. He clambered into the safety of the driver’s seat cursing under his breath and repeating, “I hate this fucking place.” After he’d locked and double checked the doors he glared at Mickey, “No more dates here, got it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Mickey agreed. He was in no condition to argue, he was just trying to get the passenger side window down.

The school was only a few minutes drive to the apartment Mickey shared with Axford but they were fretful minutes, punctuated by Mickey’s colourful objections to every bump they hit and too-fast turn Ian made. He thrust his head out the window whenever the urge to puke overwhelmed him but against all odds they made it with everyone’s stomach contents secure. Ian hopped out and helped Mickey to his apartment, unlocking the door with the key on Axford’s chain and sprinting with him to the bathroom.

Axford emerged from his room to assess the commotion from the doorway. The unflappable pitcher didn’t blink an eye at Mickey bent over the toilet or Ian knelt beside him raking his fingers through his hair. “Need any help?” he inquired.

Ian jumped at his voice and snatched his hand away. “A wet cloth would be great,” he stammered.

If Axford noticed his skittishness he didn’t let on. He got the cloth and handed it down to them without comment.

Mickey sat back on his haunches. “I don’t need an audience to throw up,” he grumbled.

Ian wasn’t sure if he was included in that sentiment but he had enough sense to pretend like he was. He passed the cloth to Mickey and followed Axford out of the bathroom.

“You can take off,” Axford offered. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Ian balked. “But- but you’re pitching tomorrow. You need to sleep.”

“I had a nap when I got home,” he insisted. “Besides, he’ll probably be out like a light. Why don’t you take my car? Just bring it back tomorrow before the game.”

Ian was racking his brain for an excuse to stay when Mickey appeared in the hall. “It’s okay, Gallagher, go home. I’m good.” He had an unwavering look in his eye that made Ian swallow his argument.

So Ian let Axford be the one to hitch an arm around Mickey’s waist and lead him to his room. He let Axford find a barf bowl and a towel and an extra blanket. He let Axford help Mickey out of his clothes and into bed. Axford, who’d known Mickey longer, who’d  _lived_  with him for the better part of a year, but who had no idea that Ian loved and wanted to take care of him more than anything.

He slipped into Mickey’s room after Axford had gotten him settled and sat on the edge of his bed. “I can stay,” he tried.  _Let me stay._

“Axford’s right, man, I’m just gonna pass out. You pitched today; you gotta be tired.”

“I’ll sleep here.”

“Ian-“

“On the couch.”

Mickey grasped his hand and gazed up at him with solemn eyes. “I don’t want you to go, but you can’t stay… not after Axford offered.”

“I’ll be worried about you,” he whispered.

“I’m fine.”

Ian huffed a bitter laugh at the floor. “Yeah, you’re  _fine_ ,” he echoed. “I’m  _fine_. Everyone’s just  _fine_.” He was pierced by guilt as soon as he’d said it and glanced back at Mickey with regret. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Forty-two more days,” Mickey told him and Ian’s frown contorted into a moony smile. He’d thought his countdown only bolstered him, but Mickey had remembered.

“You got it circled on your calendar with a big fuckin’ heart?” he joked in a dreadful imitation of Mickey’s voice.

“Nah, I drew a dick ‘cause that’s the next time I’ll get some at this rate.”

Ian snorted. “You get better and we’ll make it happen.”

He fiddled with Mickey’s fingers, drawing gentle lines and squiggles with his fingertips, idle movements borne of his inability to leave just yet.

“Hey,” Mickey said quietly after he’d watched him for a bit, “sorry about tonight. I made it through the game; thought I could make it through the rest.”

“You did pretty well considering your weak stomach.”

Mickey’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Fuck you my weak stomach.”

“You’ve thrown up on half our dates,” Ian reminded him and laughed when Mickey made a disgruntled noise. “Must be terrible to have  _one_  flaw.

“ _One_  flaw? I got you that brainwashed?”

Ian shrugged happily. “Guess so.”

“Well, maybe my gut’s a wus but at least I don’t shit my pants over playgrounds.”

“There is a  _ghost_  there, Mickey,” Ian replied in his most serious tone.

“Uh huh. You need to borrow a change of underwear before you head home?”

“What _ever_ ,” Ian scoffed. “You were just as scared as I was last time. If you didn’t have your head in the bushes you would’ve been freaked out this time, too.” He glared at Mickey’s ear to ear grin and vibrating shoulders. “Go back there then. Let’s see how long you last with all that Children of the Corn shit going on.”

“And tempt fate? After we barely made it out alive?”

“Shut up,” Ian chuckled. “If it wasn’t for me you’d be spewing ectoplasm now instead of what’s left of your tacos.”

Mickey let out a laugh that Ian would have liked to listen to on repeat and then he was looking at him in that  _other_  way he often did, with dancing eyes so soft and full of love that Ian could scarcely believe they were directed at him. It was the look that he’d fought for, that he would have done absolutely anything for, because no one in their right mind lets something like that go without waging a war. He gazed back at him, comforted that if he never made another good decision, if he fucked everything else up in his life and got it all indisputably wrong, at least he’d done this one thing astoundingly right.

“I’d go back there right now if it meant I could take care of you tonight,” he declared.

“Yeah? You’d hang with the boogeyman for me?”

“Brave, right?”

“The bravest,” Mickey said like he meant it, like he hadn’t just tormented Ian for being afraid.

It gave Ian the nerve, despite the open door, to snatch a magazine off the side table and use it to hide their faces as he leaned in to press a long kiss to Mickey’s forehead. With his nose buried in brunet hair he silently prayed that someday he would find a way to be there for him on nights like these.

“Subtle,” Mickey teased when Ian lifted away.

“Subtle’s my middle name.” He studied the cover before he set the magazine down. “Jen and Brad are back together?”

“Yeah and she’s knocked up with twins.”

“Huh.”

Axford returned with a glass of water and Ian patted Mickey’s arm before rising. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promised.

He told Axford to take good care of him and then, in defiance of every single solitary cell in his body, he walked out. It was agonizing but he forced a smile onto his face and left because it was what he’d signed up to do. He figured that maybe it was a little like pitching; painful until your muscles adapted and calluses formed. It would get easier, it  _had_  to get easier, so long as it didn’t break him first.

***

Mickey woke heavy limbed and groggy, sensing he’d slept the kind of sleep only illness can induce. It was mid morning if the light that assaulted his eyes was any indication and he was alone. He swiped his fingers across his lids and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying hard to clear his mind of the cobwebs the night had constructed.

It had taken him hours to find sleep after Ian had left; once the tacos had cleared his system he’d simply heaved bile into his barf bowl instead. Axford had tended to him without complaint, moseying into his room whenever he’d heard retching. It could have been an awkward arrangement, if Mickey had been well enough to care; he and Axford had always been friendly but not exactly clean-up-each-other’s-puke friendly. Maybe Mickey would have done the same for him, if the tables had been turned, but he knew for a fact that he would not have been so nice about it. Axford  _hummed_  while he cleaned vomit, for fucks sake. Mickey could only assume it was a dad thing. A  _good_  dad thing.

But no matter how obliging Axford was, or how appreciative Mickey was of his help, there was nothing his roommate could do to keep him from pining for Ian. It had been like adding insult to injury, watching him walk out the door. They’d been saying goodbye since they’d gotten back together, but last night had felt particularly unfair. Seconds after he was gone, Mickey regretted that he hadn’t dared to tell him to stay.  _Forty-two days_ , he kept thinking and,  _they gotta be easier than this one_.

A muffled noise from beyond his door brought him out of his thoughts. Voices. Axford’s, for sure, and someone else that was speaking too softly to hear.

He rose from his bed on wobbly legs, happy to discover his stomach was only mildly unsettled at the motion. After half zipping Ian’s pilfered hoodie over his bare chest, he slipped on a pair of well worn slippers and teetered into the hall, palming his eyes and blinking.

Ian was standing in his living room looking as sleep deprived as Mickey felt, the beautiful spiky mess of his hair all but screaming for Mickey to hurry over and run his fingers through it. He would have, had Axford not been standing in front of him, and for a split second he despised the benevolent man who’d taken care of him for much of the night.

The rasp of his slippers when they hit the linoleum alerted them to his presence and they both turned his way. Ian’s face erupted when he spotted him; an outright explosion of relief, love, joy and heartache, all at once, absurdly plain on his face. Mickey couldn’t imagine a worse person to be in a secret relationship with until he realized Ian’s expression was a carbon copy of his own.

Axford’s mellow visage didn’t change. He smiled sincerely at Mickey, “You’re looking better.”

Mickey ignored him completely. “Hey,” he directed at Ian. “How come you’re here already?” They wouldn’t be heading to the field for hours, even if Mickey was planning on going early, which he was not.

“Uh, this was in the car.” Ian hefted Mickey’s leather jacket in the air. “Your phone and wallet are in the pockets. Thought you might need them.” Mickey nodded his thanks and Ian draped the coat over the back of their sofa. He shuffled in place afterward, glancing uncertainly between Mickey and Axford. “I… I just wanted to drop that off. I should get going…”

Mickey took a quick step toward him. “Stay,” he implored then immediately dipped his head and thumbed at his lip. He hadn’t meant for the word to sound so needy. Axford wasn’t stupid yet here they were fumbling all over themselves in front of him.

“Actually, it would be great if you could,” Axford piped up. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep; I wouldn’t mind trying for a few more hours before the game. You can keep Mickey company?”

“Yeah,” Ian replied through his slowly spreading smile. “I can keep Mickey company.”

Axford patted Ian’s shoulder and wandered off in the direction of his bedroom. When his door clicked shut, Mickey hobbled straight into Ian’s open arms. Their grip on each other was hard, like they were trying to make up for the night, like the harder they held each other, the more likely they’d still feel the imprint of the other when they pulled away. Ian had his cheek mashed into Mickey’s hair, eyes closed, swaying them ever so gently. “I’ve been outside your apartment for an hour,” he admitted.

“Why?”

“I had to know if you were okay,” he explained then added, “I really need to get Axford’s number if you’re gonna keep forgetting your phone everywhere.” His clutch was still serious, with no sign of easing up. “Are you? Okay? You seem okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’ve got a little more energy this morning?”

“Spry as an out-of-shape grandpa.”

“That explains the slippers,” Ian teased and Mickey snorted feebly into his neck. “You gonna play today?”

“Yeah, I’ll play.” Even half-dead, the team was better off with him at second than they were with whatever base clogger they replaced him with. He loosened his hold on Ian but grasped his upper arm. “C’mon,” he whispered.

He led them to his room where Ian guided him onto his bed and into a cozy embrace. Lulled by fingers trailing up his shoulder, into his hair and back down, Mickey burrowed snugly into Ian’s chest. “Want me to put a show on?” Ian inquired.

“Don’t care.” Mickey knew he wouldn’t be able to hold sleep off for long.

Ian stretched for the remote and fired Netflix up on Mickey’s TV. He skipped everything that looked half decent and stopped on a nature documentary about sloths.

“The fuck?” Mickey mumbled.

“You don’t like sloths?”

Mickey was silent for a minute. “They all look like they’ve been hittin’ the bong way too hard.”

Ian laughed and it was like a song to Mickey’s increasingly sappy ears. It might have been his new favourite sound; usurping the crack of the bat or the thwack of a bullet before that.

“I can change it if you want to watch something else,” Ian offered. “Or you want a blowjob instead? No jostling.”

“Nah, man, I’m good.” And he was. He was fucking perfect right where he was. “Watch your weird show and keep doing that thing with your fingers.”

Rocked on the rise and fall of Ian’s chest, barely listening to the narrator describe the shitting habits of woolly stoners, Mickey tried not to feel the ache of future goodbyes like they were present wounds.

He honestly hadn’t known that love was like this; that one soul could cling to another so fiercely, that someone leaving could feel like being ripped apart or that them returning could feel like being knit back up again. Sick or not sick, was it even something he should want to get better at?

Too drained to think on it further, he tuned back into the show unnervingly aware that if Axford were to walk in on them at that very moment, he wouldn’t move a goddamn muscle.

***

The team dragged their asses through a spectacular loss to the Bulls later that day, but their battle with food poisoning was nothing but a horrible memory by the morning after. And just in time. They were keyed up to save face in a rare afternoon game.

As much as Mickey lived for the energy of a stadium at night, there was something undeniably nostalgic about games played entirely in the daylight. They felt like a nod to simpler times, in spite of the ever present Jumbrotron and too-busy concession stands, when baseball was just sun, hot turf and men getting dirty. It proved to be the spark the beleaguered team needed to regain their footing and emerge from their three-game homestand with a win.

The men returned to the clubhouse in high spirits, ready to firm up plans for the evening ahead. Mickey took little notice of the chatter until talk of a party at Melendez’s apartment rose above the din. He heard the third basement rope Peralta into it and then a more reluctant Fowler. Ian was an easy yes after that. The guest list had swollen to double digits by the time Melendez approached Mickey.

“You in?” he inquired without much optimism. “Free beer.”

Mickey’s eyes found Ian’s on the other side of the room. “Do me a favour and I’m in,” he told a surprised Melendez.

“Name it.”

“Go outside in fifteen and tell me how many bloodsuckers are left out there.”

A cheshire cat grin stretched across Melendez’s face. “Don’t you mean  _Mouseketeers_?”

“Stop calling them that.”

“You should be nicer to your Mousedom, Mickey.”

“You gonna do it or not?”

“As if I’d pass up the chance to have you at my party. You know how many ladies you’ll bring in?”

Mickey shook his head at his tiresome teammate and headed to the showers. Fifteen minutes later Melendez reappeared while he was getting dressed. “There’re a dozen or so. Mostly kids. So, you’re coming?”

“Beer better be cold.”

Melendez shot loaded finger guns at him in reply and Mickey sighed. It was nearly inconceivable to him that he was about to willingly spend time with these douchebags outside of work. Again.

He left a short time later and walked out into a crowd that was at least three times bigger than Melendez’s estimate. He growled at the third baseman when he walked past, “Remind me to ask someone that can count past ten with their fuckin’ shoes on next time.” Melendez just laughed like Mickey was delightful.

So, he was in a particularly anti-social mood a few hours later when he barged into Ian’s apartment like he owned the place. He went straight to the fridge, took one beer then reconsidered and took two, planted his ass in front of their 65 inch TV, crossed his ankles on their coffee table and turned on the Jays game. There were people scattered about but he didn’t bother to take note of who. Only one mattered and he plopped down beside him within minutes of his arrival.

“There are some women here that are  _very_  excited to meet you,” Ian informed him. “Rumour has it that you don’t have a girlfriend.”

Mickey breathed an irritated chuckle. “Well, they ain’t wrong.”

“It’s not gonna help that you showed up here looking like that.”

“Huh?” Mickey had thrown on ripped jeans and a black tee. He wasn’t even sure if they were clean. They probably weren’t.

Ian’s eyes roamed over his body anyway, flooding Mickey’s groin with warmth. “How long do I have to wait before I can take you to my room?”

Mickey had half a mind to tell him he didn’t have to wait at all, but Melendez set down beside them before he could get the words out. “Mickey, you think you could do us a solid and blow off those girls sooner than later?”

“I dunno,” Mickey mused around a swig of beer, “you got any food in this shithole?” That’s the way this worked. Mickey didn’t do anything he didn’t want to unless there was something in it for him.

Melendez piled party food onto the table around Mickey’s feet. Pizza, chicken wings, and his own personal chip and dip that he wouldn’t have to share with the commoners. He shared it with Ian, however, who seemed to find Mickey’s display of sovereignty highly convenient, not to mention entertaining. Satisfied with his offering, Mickey told Melendez to send over the girls.

They came in an obnoxious gaggle of sparkly, perfumed perkiness, each trying to outdo the others glossy lipped pout. There were three of them, all replicas of every other cleat chaser Mickey had encountered over the years; pretty but overdone and underdressed.

He’d played this game with them or their ilk so many times that he could do it by rote. He knew precisely what to do and say to be rid of them as quick as humanly possible. He scanned each of them with an indifference he didn’t have to fake, then jeered, “You got any hotter friends?”

His focus was back on his food and the game before they could offer reactions. A glance at Ian found him wide eyed but hiding a smile behind his beer. It was an asshole move, but letting them down easy took a hell of a lot more time and was so much less effective. One thing was for certain, if he ever came out to the world, their kind of attention would be the last thing he missed.

The party ramped up after that. The music got louder and the hard liquor came out. Butler showed up, too, and brought a handful of blunts with him. Rather than distribute them, he lit one at a time and flitted amongst the guests, persuading each to take a few hits before he was on to the next. When he squeezed between Mickey and Ian, the second baseman turned his nose up at the weed; getting high with Ian in close proximity to their teammates was a bad move. He gestured for Ian to indulge, though; they’d had drug testing sprung on them in Charlotte, if he was going to partake, now was the time.

Mickey couldn’t hear the TV over the din any longer, but he kept his eyes on it anyway. The Bisons were usually playing when the Jays were on, so he liked to catch the big league games whenever he got the chance. He’d shared turf with more than a few of the players, which made it interesting to watch, but the Jays also happened to be in a tight playoff race. Baseball was at its finest when every game mattered.

Ian watched, too, happier to share the sofa with him and puff on the small blunt he’d coaxed from Butler than to join their teammates in their drinking games. Mickey sipped beer and amused him with anecdotes about the players he knew, glad to carve out some alone time in the middle of the jam-packed room. It wasn’t half bad, if he was being honest, and that meant it was a heck of a lot better than anything else they’d managed of late.

But with the booze flowing and the weed circulating, it was only a matter of time before the party reached its tipping point. It happened all at once. One minute they were idly mocking Bowser’s batting technique, blissfully lost in their own little world, the next, Butler was kicking their feet off the coffee table so he could perform a striptease with a girl that looked a lot like the lollipop aficionado from Bare Fax. A glance around the room revealed more commotion; a group doing tequila suicide shots, snorting salt and pouring lime in their eyes, an Asian dude in a Domino’s uniform doing a headstand, and more than one couple that looked to be on the verge of penetration.

With everyone sufficiently smashed, it was high time Mickey made his exit. He emptied his beer and lifted off the couch.

Ian groped at the back of his shirt to halt him. “Where you goin’?” he shouted over the racket.

Mickey bent down, hands braced against the couch on either side of Ian’s head so he could bring his mouth close to his ear. “Your room,” he whispered and then he was back up and strutting.

Ian took longer to catch up than he should have… on account of him being high as a fucking kite. Eyes half-open, bloodshot and unfocused, he staggered through the door a full three minutes after Mickey had entered. When he caught sight of the brunet sitting on his bed, his face lit up, like he suddenly remembered why he was there.

Mickey kneaded at his forehead in misery. He hadn’t realized how wrecked Ian was getting when they’d just been chilling on the sofa. Ian, to his credit, was crossing the floor with a certain degree of determination. When he reached Mickey, he squashed him into the bed and pressed a sloppy kiss to his throat.

Mickey decided he could work with it; he’d made do with worse. Besides, he knew for a fact that fully baked dudes could still get it done.

First things first, though, he needed air. “Yo, you’re crushing the fuck outta me,” he groused.

Ian granted him enough room to get a breath, barely. “Sorry,” he mumbled, still depositing slobber across Mickey’s neck, “I just can’t wait to fuck you.” He picked his head up. “Or do you wanna fuck me?”

Mickey pulled a face that made his preference clear. “No.”

“I mean fuck me with  _my_  dick,” Ian attempted to clarify.

“With  _your_  dick?”

“Yeah.”

Ian was making Mickey feel like he was the one that was high. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re sayin’.”

“Fuck me with  _my_ … like, ride me.”

“What kinda way is that to say-,” Mickey spluttered. “No, I just wanna get fucked, okay?”

“Okay, yeah, that’s what I want, too,” Ian rasped. “Or you can fuck  _me_  if you want.”

“Jesus,” Mickey cursed; time to take the reins. He pushed Ian upright and reached for his belt. “C’mon, take your fuckin’ pants off. Where’s your lube?”

“Uh…” Ian pursed his lips in thought and Mickey had to hold back more profanity. He yanked the drawer of Ian’s bedside table open and rifled through his belongings. “I don’t think it’s in there,” Ian told him in measured syllables. He proceeded to meander about his room, uncannily sloth-like, poking at this and that until Mickey suspected he’d forgotten what he was looking for. Not for the first time, he wondered what the fuck kind of weed Butler was into.

He spotted the duffel bag that Ian travelled with on the floor near his dresser and found the lube in the same pocket he’d last seen it. “Okay, we’re in business,” he declared. “Drop your pants.”

Ian obliged with a slow-witted smile that Mickey didn’t find particularly alluring, but the redhead’s dick emerged ready to party so that was a win. He shoved his pants and underwear down and bent himself over the bed. When Ian made no move to do a single goddamn thing, he slathered lube onto his own fingers, worked it around his entrance and reached behind him to coat Ian too.

Ian was visiting another dimension by then, staring at Mickey’s ass like he was seeing it for the very first time. Mickey had had enough stoned encounters to empathize, toking before sex was like pouring rocket fuel on the senses; every sight became more beautiful, every touch more intense. But there was an apartment full of assholes on the other side of the door and they didn’t have all fucking night. “ _Ian_ ,” he snapped.

“Sorry,” Ian whispered. “Just your ass… it’s...” He didn’t finish his sentence, just spaced the fuck out again.

Mickey sank his face into his palms, ready to throw in the proverbial towel, when he felt the head of Ian’s dick pushing at his opening. “Oh my God,” Ian groaned as he slid past his rim. “I’ve never done this high. Why have I never done this high?”

“I dunno, man, but you’ve been missin’ out.”

Ian leant over Mickey’s back and mouthed at his neck. He’d yet to make even one thrust, but Mickey let him indulge; having a dick up his ass was doing wonders for his patience. When the redhead finally decided to move, he didn’t try to restrain his enthusiasm; with his brow pressed firmly into the back of Mickey’s head he moaned unreservedly into his hair. “Magic,” he gasped, “It’s fucking magic.” Mickey wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the weed or finishing his earlier thought about his ass.

It had begun to feel pretty great for him, too; Ian was scratching a week long itch after all, but just when it was getting good, Ian pulled out and crawled past him onto the bed.

“Where the  _fuck_  are you going?”

Ian collapsed onto his back, sated and panting. “I finished.”

“You  _what_? ”

“I finished,” he repeated, frowning at Mickey’s murderous expression, “You didn’t?”

Mickey motioned to his rock-hard erection then stared fiercely at the satisfied redhead. “Do I  _look_  like I finished?” he barked. “You think I can get off in ten fucking seconds?”

“C’mere, stick your dick in my mouth,” Ian offered. He formed his lips into an accommodating circle and waited.

“I don’t  _want_  to stick my dick in your mouth; I want you to stick your dick back in my ass!”

“Okay, give me a couple minutes and I’ll be ready to go again,” Ian assured him, but his eyes were staying closed longer with every blink.

Mickey shook him hard. “Don’t you dare fall asleep you fried  _motherfucker_ ,” he hissed.

“No, no, I’m not…,” Ian mumbled. “Just need a minute.”

Mickey watched him fade from the same position he’d been stranded in, bent and half naked with his empty ass presented to no one. He let his forehead thump into the mattress and heaved a defeated sigh into the comforter. “It was easier to come with a dick up my ass when I was single,” he muttered.

He hitched up his pants, covered the redhead’s still exposed junk with the blanket from the foot of his bed and left for a desperately needed cigarette.

Music assaulted him when he opened Ian’s door. With every unit in the building occupied by baseball players, there was no one to complain. A quick assessment revealed that nothing much had changed; Butler was windmilling his dick from atop the coffee table, the Domino’s guy was still upside down, and only the friskiest of the couples had moved to the bedrooms. When he passed Fowler’s wide open door he wasn’t even a little surprised to see the catcher canoodling on his bed with a woman.

Sitting on the front stoop with the base from inside thumping him mockingly in the ass, Mickey contemplated his predicament.

Not even two weeks into the resumption of their secret affair and he felt like he was losing his mind. Whatever he and Ian thought they were doing, the universe was making it abundantly clear that it wasn’t onboard. Someone up there seemed hell bent on steering them away from each other and directly into the path of oncoming madness. It was the only reasonable conclusion he could see to their ill-fated tale. Complete. Fucking. Insanity.

And it wasn’t just about getting laid, though Mickey had never experienced more sexual frustration in his entire life, simply trying to hang out amounted to them settling for crumbs. Being on the road had been shit, now being at home was equally as bad. Something needed to give, or he wasn’t going to make it.  _They_  weren’t going to make it. Forty-one more days might as well be a million.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard the door open behind him. Melendez peeked around the jam, “Mind if I sit?”

“It’s your apartment.”

The Domnican settled beside him and earned a bemused side-eye when he stuck his fingers out like he expected a drag off Mickey’s cigarette. He gave up and dropped his hand. “Ian okay? He was looking for you in the broom closet earlier.”

“He’s asleep,” Mickey grunted.

“You crashing here tonight?”

“Nah, man, I only had two beer.”

“You sure? You’d be doing me another solid if you could keep an eye on Ian.” He was staring too intently at Mickey’s profile as he said it, like he was willing the second baseman to find some hidden intent in his words. But Mickey wasn’t one to show his cards too early, whatever Melendez was getting at, he’d have to spell it out. So, he tapped ash onto the step beneath his feet and remained silent. The Dominican blew a little huff and leaned closer to add, more quietly, “Everyone’s just gonna conk out, Mick. No one will think twice about where you sleep.”

And there it was. Ian was right. The fucker knew.

Mickey swung his head to face him and Melendez shrank back like it had  _just_  occurred to him that telling Mickey Milkovich you knew he was gay had the potential to be life threatening. But Mickey wasn’t mad, he was curious. “What if they did?” he queried. “Think twice about it?”

Melendez blinked away his sobering fright and answered earnestly. “I think everyone knows better than to fuck with you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

“No one’s gonna fuck with anybody you don’t want them to fuck with, either.”

“And if I’m not around?”

“Your reputation will be, and I will be... but, to be honest, I think he can take care of himself.”

Mickey thought so, too, but only a fool would start a fight this big without backup, and  _starting_  a fight, he realized, was exactly what he was considering… because when he’d just confirmed that  _two_  people knew their secret, and weren’t going to tell, it hadn’t been relief that he’d felt, but overwhelming frustration.

He’d been putting so much thought into what he would do if Meacham found out that he’d put none into what he would do if he didn’t. Just keep going? The way they were? He remembered telling Ian that he was kidding himself if he thought they could keep a relationship like this up for years, but then he’d gone and fooled himself into believing it too.

Love could only do so much; they needed some kind of normalcy and fewer goodbyes. They needed to be  _together_.

He could feel the fragments of a new plan taking shape in his mind, built upon the one he’d already made, but proactive instead of reactive, and bigger, bolder, with sky-high stakes for the possibility of a much, much greater reward.

Cigarette dangling precariously from his grin, he hung his arm over Melendez’s shoulders and patted his cheek. “You’re not so bad.”

“Thanks?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” He took a last pull from his smoke and handed it off to the bewildered Dominican before getting up. “Oh,” he stopped to mention on his way up the stairs, “I like pancakes for breakfast.”

Mickey found Ian exactly as comatose as he’d left him. After locking the door and discarding his own clothes, he managed to get him out of his jeans without waking him; no small feat given how tight he wore them, something Mickey had appreciated until then.

Under the covers, he pulled Ian’s arm over him and rolled them to their sides. The redhead moulded himself to his back, sixth sense guiding him, even in his deepest slumber, to form the big spoon to Mickey’s little. He was snoring, loudly, but if Mickey had to choose, it would be Ian’s snoring over the music he was drowning out every time.

It felt like it had been years, decades, centuries, certainly not days, since Mickey had been so snug and comfy… except for one thing. Ian’s doll sat on the bedside table in his direct line of sight; it’s unblinking, lopsided gaze fixed squarely on him. How did Ian sleep with the damn thing staring at him like that? He reached out with every intention of knocking it over but clasped it instead. It would make Ian stupid-happy if it smelt like him in the morning. So, he tucked the dismal creature securely into his chest and told it to, “Go the fuck to sleep.” He soon took his own advice, but not before he acknowledged to himself that the universe had won… beyond any conceivable doubt, he was absolutely fucking nuts.

But with the seeds of his new plan sprouting daring thoughts in his head, he suspected that maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, because he’d need a whole shit load of Ian’s crazy kinda brave to pull it off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close guys and I've got a fire lit under my ass to get this done now. <3


End file.
